Back to You
by joker to the thief
Summary: "And sometimes, if I blink my eyes enough, I think I'll just wake up and you'd still be there sleeping next to me." /a Puckleberry AU futurefic
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first Glee fanfic...and my return to writing after a long, long, _long_ hiatus. The amazing Puckleberry writers here on FF have been inspiring and this plot bunny's been menacing my brain for a while now so I thought, why not? **

**A warning though - Rachel may seem a little OOC at the start but bear with me; she's supposed to be. And really, you can't live in NY without developing a _little_ bit of a potty mouth.  
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**Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue.**

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* * *

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_Nobody, no_

_Nobody… _

_Is gonna… _

_Rain on my…_

_Parade!_

This is where she belongs. Like a sunflower basking in the sunlight, she tips her head back towards the spotlight and hold, holds, _holds_ the last note as long as she can. She is in front of a crowd, an audience in Ohio. They love her. They are on their feet, their whoops and hollers echoing in her ears. She could let this be all about her and her time in the spotlight. But she can't; it isn't just about her anymore. It's about the 11 other people behind her. It's about showing them what she's made of. It's about being special by being a part of something special. She turns the emotion roiling in her gut into music and with that…Rachel Berry brings the house down.

Her eyes suddenly pop open when she hears a smattering of slow handclaps. Just as quickly, she is back on the darkened stage of the Gershwin Theatre…and Ohio is back to being just another memory.

"Good. Very good," a gruff voice interrupts, barely heard over the general chaos that is a Broadway musical in the middle of production. She squints into the darkness, barely making out the unkempt features of Richard Vartan behind the cloud of smoke he was perpetually enveloped in.

Cigarette in hand, he is gesturing expansively towards the cast milling about onstage. "I know I've been repeating this from the very start but we are doing something extraordinary here, people. No one - I mean, NO ONE - has had the _cojones_ to stage this musical again. We are either going to reach new heights...or we're all going to be devoured alive by piranhas. Opening night is in a month so from now on, I need all of you to be fantastic every minute of every day. I need all of you to commit to your characters. I need you to BRING IT. It's not enough to douse yourself in gasoline; you need to light the fucking match too." He looks around before throwing the (currently) unlit cigarette at a brunette actress's head a few seats down. "Hey, you feelin' me down there, Mrs. Brice?"

Rachel is really trying hard not to giggle. The man was a genius with more awards than limbs – he was actually crazy enough to put on the first revival of _Funny Girl_ on Broadway since Streisand – and she had kind of a soft spot for this weird, tiny little man. But of course, working with said genius meant having to put up with most of his many idiosyncrasies. Aside from weirdly descriptive metaphors and his ability to smell like cheese any hour of the day, he refused to learn his cast's names and preferred calling them by their character's names. This meant being called "Chorus Girl #2" (Dos, for short) for however long the show ran.

Richard blows the whistle he has hanging around his neck. "Okay, that's all for today. Rehearsals resume in seven days. Make use of the time given, people, because when you get back? I'll be riding your asses like rented burros up and down the Grand Canyon. Now begone, miscreants!"

She starts making her way towards the wings, idly chatting with her Nick Arnstein when she hears Richard call for her. She turns back to greet him. "What's up, boss?" (Another Vartan idiosyncrasy.)

As she approaches his table, she can see bright blue eyes peering at her inquisitively from beneath a mop of gray hair. "I know this isn't exactly our first rehearsal and this certainly isn't the first time you've sung this song. Hell, we've been doing this for 8 weeks now; even _I'm_ tired of the songs. I don't have to tell you that you're been doing a great job."

She is dreading what comes next. "_But…_"

"But that wasn't good at all." A pause, and he gives her a knowing look. "Fanny, that was _amazing_. I have never heard you sing it like that."

The urge to heave a huge sigh of relief is oh so tempting. She has been hearing critiques on her singing or dancing since she was old enough to understand them (of course, there weren't _that_ many) but hearing a Tony award winner tell you "You sucked" was bound to be something that would take weeks to recover from. "Thank you."

"That was simply…magical. Inspired." He fingers his beard and looks at her in fascination. "Where have you been hiding that performance?"

"I'm not entirely certain," she sighs. "I guess it's because I haven't had a chance to perform that song on a stage with a full orchestra in a very long time."

"And where, pray tell, have you performed this on a stage?" he asks shrewdly.

Her smile turns wistful. "In another life."

Richard quirks his eyebrow at her. "How mysterious. Well, you don't have to tell me. It's your artistic process. I don't know what brought it out but whatever it is, I need you to keep. On. Doing. It. I'll see you at rehearsals," and he dismisses her just as abruptly.

"And Fanny?"

"Yes, boss?"

"One of these days you're going to have to tell me the story of that other life."

Somehow, she doesn't think show choir, stolen set lists and a past she just wants to forget is the story her director is expecting to hear. Before he can get it in his head to grill her some more, she beats a hasty retreat backstage.

* * *

"And then she said, 'No way' and I was like, 'Yes way, bitch', and then…" The blonde beside her yammered on, ignorant of the fact that Rachel had completely tuned out of the conversation from the moment they started walking towards 50th St. station. It is still early spring, winter barely a few days past, and she really hates that one thing she had to inherit from her mother is her poor circulation. Her hands are freezing as she shoves them inside the pockets of her Yankees sweatshirt, hastily thrown on top of the tank top and dance pants she wore for rehearsals.

"So, what do you think?" Emily finally starts talking and looks at her in expectation. If she wasn't so used to this situation, Rachel would be panicking.

"I don't know, Em," she offers nonchalantly.

Emily huffs in frustration. "Oh come on, what's your excuse this time? We don't have rehearsal tomorrow so the whole 'I have to keep my mind and body in tip-top condition so I can't have fun AT ALL' excuse doesn't fly anymore. Come on, it's just dinner and drinks, probably go on to a club after. Please?" Her tone turns wheedling and Rachel can't help laughing. "Danny, Theo, Mags and Kara are gonna be there. And Prescott is coming too!"

"And who, may I ask, is Prescott?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you yet?" Emily's blue eyes light up. "He's this new guy I'm seeing. He's smart, funny and he makes a ton of money. He's a little older—"

"How much older?" she interrupts.

"About eight—," Rachel raises an eyebrow. "—een years." Emily tries to backtrack. "Hey, age ain't nothin' but a number right? Besides, he's, like, totally young at heart, you know. Ray…I might be falling in love with him."

Rachel is glad that her long hair hides the rolling of her eyes. Emily is a sweet girl and probably one of the few friends she has within the cast but she had this tendency to fall in love every other week. It was maddening being her friend but on the upside, the stories were never boring.

Emily is practically vibrating in excitement, a goofy smile on her face. "I really want you to meet him. I think he could be the One! Like, really the One, not like how I though Robbie from Jersey was the One. You'll be seeing me in a white gown at the Plaza by the time the year is over, just you wait."

"What is with you and this overwhelming obsession with finding 'the One'?" Rachel asks, half jokingly adding air quotes. "Shouldn't you be thinking about other things, like, oh say…your career? You're only 20, you know."

"Hey, don't act like you don't think about it too, missy!" Emily has her hands on her hips. She almost reminds Rachel of herself. Or rather, of who she used to be.

"I don't." At her look of disbelief, Rachel reiterates seriously. "No, really, I don't."

"I don't believe you. Like you honestly don't think about getting hitched, having kids, getting the white picket fence, living happily ever after and the whole shebang."

"I think about this show and what I need to do to live up to the expectations attached to the role. That's what I think about," she says, her face a mask.

"Seriously?" Emily blows a raspberry. "You are, like, the most boring person ever. You've got New York's most eligible as your boyfriend and you're thinking about a stupid role."

"Hey!"

"I know, I know – may the hand of Barbra strike me down." A frustrated Emily looks remarkably like an annoyed puppy. "But seriously, Rachel, there is, like, not one drop of romance in your body."

"Romance is _highly_ overrated. Connor and I have a relationship based on mutual respect and compatibility. He understands that I have my own life completely separate from his and I afford him the same kind of understanding. We have no illusions or expectations. It is what it is. Our relationship is…realistic. Soulmates? Happily ever afters? They do not exist. It may shock you but I am actually happy with my life. I'm happy with what I have: no complications and – this I particularly love – _zero drama_."

Rachel stops talking when she notices the expression on Emily's face and the small crowd of people eagerly listening to her harangue. The fact that her friend looks like she had just told her that Santa doesn't exist helps to curb her tongue. She clears her throat in discomfort and merely carries on briskly. "So, anyway, the reason I can't joint you tonight is Connor asked me to catsit Karl while he's away on business. It's practically a full-time job so you can understand why I can't go."

The distinct grating rumble of the approaching A Train allows for a slightly graceful exit. "I'm really sorry, Em. Maybe next time."

"Right." Emily gives her a hesitant grin. "Have a good break, girl. I'll catch you in a week."

Rachel waves goodbye as the doors close on the train taking her to Connor's apartment on the Upper West Side. She leans back against the hard plastic seat and wonders why the hell she feels so guilty.

* * *

The cat hates her.

No, seriously, he does. He's watching her right now with those beady, cat eyes like he's planning something. Something diabolical, she bets.

"Look, you – I don't care if you were named for a German philosopher whose ideas played a significant role in the development of communism." She waves her ruined knitting in the air. "If you massacre another one of my things, I swear you'll be the next thing I'm making into a scarf!"

Karl just meows at her from his perch on top of the bookshelf. She turns back, grumbling, to the tangled, grizzly mass of light purple yarn. It's supposed to be a "Happy Birthday! You're my mom and I still kind of love you even if I haven't seen you in years" scarf for Shelby. At the rate she was going, she might as well give it up and just buy something from Bloomie's.

She hasn't seen her mother in years and, to be completely honest, she hasn't been playing "dutiful daughter" to her dads either. Since her abrupt exit from Lima 2 years ago, she hasn't gone home or kept in touch with anyone still living in her hometown, the excuse always being "My life is too hectic right now to take a breather and fly 2 hours to see people I supposedly care about". Or something like that.

The last two years have been spent working her butt off to make her dream come true. Time left over from work (slinging coffee at a café on E 42nd) used to mean auditions, vocal coaching, dance classes and acting classes. Finally, after a couple of off-off-_off_-Broadway roles, stints as an in-house singer at a jazz club and Nessarose's understudy in _Wicked_, it all seems to be coming together for her. Her dads might have piled the Jewish guilt on pretty heavily but she thinks the self-imposed isolation has been worth it. She may still live in the tiny walk-up in Brooklyn Heights she landed in when she first got to New York and the only people she knows are her own castmates but it's worth it.

And now she has Connor – this sweet, cute guy who, one night a few months ago, came up to her after a performance, told her that her vocals were magnificent and offered to buy her dinner. She normally wouldn't even entertain invitations like that except, as fate had it on that day, she'd been having Spaghetti-Os for dinner three nights in a row, he called her "magnificent" and...she was just _so_ goddamned lonely.

They've been dating ever since. She thinks she might really like him and she knows that given enough time, she was sure to love him because hello? The man was practically perfect. He was like something out of a fairytale (or her 16-year-old self's fantasies) – handsome, well-dressed, well-mannered, cultured, financially stable…and the list went on. He even loved musicals, which even she couldn't believe at first. More importantly, he was completely and utterly safe. Connor O'Reilly is not a man who would be ripping out a piece of her heart any time soon.

Been there, done that, had the emotional scars to prove it.

The phone rings but she ignores it. She had already brought in his mail, watered his plants and listened to the message he left for her on his own answering machine earlier (_Hi Rachel! I'm in Zurich right now. Jackson's being a pain in the you-know-what again. So I was wondering if you remember if my mom is a European size 42 or 44. Um, just text me if you remember. Oh and don't forget to get my dry cleaning and water the rubber plant on the balcony. Kiss Karl for me! Thanks! I'll see you in 4 days!_) so now she is content to sit back, relax and let the machine do its job.

"Mr. O'Reilly? This is Jackie, at Tourneau. We have the diamond ring you had resized ready a day early. It's available for pick-up anytime, just look for me. Thanks and have a nice day."

One second, she is staring at the answering machine in abject horror. The next, she is on the couch with her head between her knees, trying not to throw up.

Ring.

Engagement.

_Fuck._

The logical part of her brain is insisting that hey, it might not even be an engagement ring. The passionate (_crazy, _a voice in her head insists) side of her is, however, rearing its ugly head and telling her to panic. And quickly.

This is insane. They've only been seeing each for 2 months; they haven't even slept together yet! What if he thinks she's one of those girls who didn't want to have sex until they were married and this is his way of asking her for sex? Or worse…what if it isn't? Would she say yes? Does she even _want_ to say yes? All the questions are making her head spin and what finally surfaces is a long-buried memory.

"_Marry me."_

"_You're crazy."_

"_Then we'd be a matched pair or something. Crazy with a side of Crazier"._

"…"

"_I want us to be a family, Rachel."_

When she finally raises her head, Karl has jumped on the coffee table and is now staring at her intently, looking for all the world like he's asking her, "Well, what do you plan to do now, genius?" She had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Time to get yourself together, Rachel; a_ cat_ is actually judging you now. She takes a deep breath. What _was_ she going to do?

Whether or not she is going to accept Connor's (hypothetical) proposal is something she doesn't know yet. What she does know is this: she ran away 2 years ago and she now has to face the fact that she just can't run anymore. There's only so much road to cover before one ends up right where they started. Maybe it was time to finally deal with the things left behind...and finally move forward. Because sticking the past in boxes and expecting it to stay there? Not working anymore.

It takes her all of 3 seconds to decide on a course of action. She leaves a hastily scribbled note, stuffs Karl into his carrier (earning a few scratches in the process) and hightails it to her apartment. On the subway ride over, she plans the next few days with the same fervor she used to direct towards her pageant routines. And within minutes of walking through the door, she books the next flight to Columbus.

Rachel Berry had some unfinished business to take care of.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks so much for the reviews/alerts/favorites! My muse is loving the attention so much, she decided to trot out this chapter earlier than even I thought possible. It's a little shorter but to make for it, I'll be posting the next chapter tonight. Please review; I really love hearing from you guys and getting your input.  
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**So for this chapter, we have a trip back home and some familiar faces. Enjoy!  
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Somewhere over Pennsylvania, Rachel realizes (and not for the first time) that she hates flying. Absolutely abhors it. It's bad enough that she was almost late for her flight because she got the slowest cab in the history of New York. The girl at the airline counter just had to be a complete and utter bitch too; one question about whether she could just fit the pet carrier under her seat and she's getting her head bitten off. She also has to deal with the fact that, for all intents and purposes, she has an unlikely wingman (or should it be wing_cat_?) for this little mission: Karl, with all his kitty accessories. Like really, what cat needs a Swarovski-encrusted travel bowl? Now she's seated next to a man whose main purpose in life, apparently, is to hit on her. Repeatedly. With pickup lines that had last seen the light of day in '79. Add to that her natural trepidation of enclosed spaces, _Leap Year _(a truly unfortunate vehicle for Amy Adams, in her opinion) and she actually couldn't wait to get to Ohio.

Somewhere in between Columbus and Lima, she realizes that it's just one of those days. Torrential downpour is the best description she can find for Ohio weather and when she gets to the Hertz counter, the only car available is a 12-passenger van. Yes, she knows – she's a 5' 3" 100-lb woman navigating a vehicle that looks like it could fit an entire football team; of course she's going to look ridiculous. It doesn't help that trying to maneuver what appears to be a tank in disguise is made all the more challenging with the yowls of a very annoyed cat echoing in her ears.

Somewhere in the last five minutes, she accepts that maybe the universe has it in for her. She rests her head on the steering wheel of her rented monstrosity as it's parked in front of her dads' house and listens to their voices on the answering machine again.

_*Beep!* Hi! You've reached Alan and James Berry. If you're calling regarding a business matter, our offices can be reached at 419-555-2347. However, we will be unavailable from April 7 – 10 while we attend the NCBL's annual conference. If you're calling regarding a personal matter, you can reach us on our respective mobile phones or you may leave a message after the beep. And if you're "casing the joint", please be advised that we have the entire house rigged with a sophisticated security system directly connected to the Lima Police Department. Have a nice day! *Beep!*_

Damn her life.

* * *

Okay, so maybe if she had thought to actually call first before jumping on the plane, this wouldn't have happened. This being her scaling the trellis below her bathroom window in a pencil skirt and stocking feet. Of course, with her luck, her fathers had to choose this to be the time to get rid of the hide-a-key in the front yard. Her soaked hair slaps her in the face as she struggles after her right foot slips on the wet wood. She knows it's not the most intelligent plan she's ever had but give her a break – she's tired, she's hungry and she really needs to pee. Given the circumstances, an insanity defense would not be without merit. Finally, she reaches the window and with a little trick to the latch (a move she will deny knowing until her dying day), she practically collapses into the room.

"Breaking and entering. I can't believe I've fallen this low," she mumbles, her forehead resting for a second against the cool tile floor before she finds it in herself to get up. _Wouldn't be the first time you broke the law, _snarks the ever-present voice in her head. She ignores it (as well as the part of her brain telling her to disable the alarm as soon as she can) and flails around in the darkness for a light. The years have obviously played havoc on her memory because she totally forgot about the raw chunk of rose quartz sitting beside her bathroom lamp (Daddy was in his metaphysical phase; apparently rose quartz promoted a strong sense of self-worth). "Ow!"

She looks down at the bleeding gash on her palm and rolls her eyes at herself. Fan-fucking-tastic.

After taking care of her urgent business, she makes her way to her dads' bathroom where she knows the first aid kit is kept. Then Rachel's day is finally complete when the power goes out. "Damnit!" She stubs her toe in the dark. "Ow!"

She swears the whole house is out to get her. "This day _cannot_ possibly get any worse." Fumbling blindly towards the closet downstairs for the rechargeable lamps, she hears the rumble of thunder in the distance . Cue lightning, a rustle in the bushes and the huge shadow passing in front of the window. She freezes – that actually _was_ a shadow passing in front of the window. And it's coming to the door.

To paraphrase Mercedes Jones – hell to the no. This will not be the last scene in the life of Rachel Berry. She has too much to live for. With that on her mind, she grabs the baseball bat leaning against the closet wall and prepares to make her stand.

_One…_

She can see the shadow of feet from the light that seeps in under the front door.

_Two…_

The doorknob rustles before slowly turning. She tightens her grip on her weapon and prays to Hashem that she would go to temple regularly, be a better person, as long as she didn't end up a statistic on the Lima Evening News.

_Three! _

The door bursts open and a tall, menacing figure is silhouetted by the darkening storm. It raises its monstrous limbs at her and she screams in terror. At that moment, the power decides to come back on and she gets her first good look at the monster.

"_Finn?"_

"Rachel?"

They stare at each other in shock. "Well, fuck."

Now Rachel has imagined scenarios like this. Those scenarios, while they did involve a surprise meeting between old friends, didn't have her bleeding, with wet clothes and mascara running down her face, and Finn Hudson brandishing a flashlight at her. He has his forehead scrunched up in bewilderment as he tries to reconcile the recent events in his head. There is a familiar, adorably confused look on his face when he looks at her. "You learned to swear."

She laughs. Some things never change. "It's so good to see you, Finn." She surprises him by giving him a big hug. Truly, she has never been happier to see an ex (bar that one time when she ran into Jesse working as a clown at a children's party).

He pulls away and smiles down at her. She didn't think it was even possible but he seemed to have grown taller since she last saw him. "What are you doing here, Rachel?"

"It's a long story," she sighs. She looks at him closely and finally notices what he's wearing. "Oh my god! Are you a police officer?" she asks as she takes in the dark blue uniform. Her eyes bug out. "Is that why you're here? Did the alarm trip? Am I getting arrested? I can't get arrested, Finn!"

Now it's his turn to laugh. "Slow down, Rach! You're not getting arrested." He gives her a wink. "I'll be letting this one slide. And no, it was Mrs. Currie next door. She called it in, said she saw 'a very small cat burglar scaling the Berrys' house'."

She rolls her eyes. "Ah, good ol' Mrs. Currie. Glad to know the old bat is still alive. Tell me, does she still have those binoculars?"

"Yup. I don't get why you had to go through all that trouble, Rach. The front door's unlocked."

Seriously, she finds this out now? She was going to have a serious discussion with her dads about the do's and don'ts of home security when they got home. "Who in their right mind leaves the front door unlocked?"

He shrugs. "It's Lima, Rachel," he replies, as if that explained everything. Which it kind of did. "It's really awesome that you're back." His eyes do a final sweep around to make sure everything was in order and when they turn back to her, that's when he finally notices her injury. "Holy shit, Rach, you gotta get that looked at."

"It's fine." She pokes at the wound a little. "I think it congealed already."

Finn's face pales before he grabs her arm and all but drags her to his patrol car. "Come on, I'm taking you to the hospital. I know somebody in the ER."

"Finn, wait!"

He stops abruptly. "What?"

"Did you lock the door?"

"Yes! Now let's go! You could be bleeding to death! Or worse!"

"And people say I'm dramatic," she mutters as he continues pulling on her, muttering something about tetanus and 'blood transplants'. "Hold on, Finn, I need to get something from my car." She manages to extricate herself from his grasp and runs to the car.

He watches bemusedly when she struggles to get something from the cavern in the back of the van. "Nice car," he calls out.

"Shut up." She puts on her discarded heels and sprints back to Finn, pet carrier in hand.

"What's that?"

"This," she says as she stuffs the carrier in the back seat. "Is Karl. Karl, meet Finn."

The sound of plaintive meowing fills the car. Finn reaches back to waggle his fingers at the cat. "Hey there, kitty. Who's a nice kitty?" Karl purrs sweetly at the attention.

"Figures he'd like you," she deadpans as she buckles in.

* * *

On the ride to St. Rita's Medical Center, he fills her in on what he's been doing for the last few years. She already knew he got a football scholarship in Indiana State University; what she didn't know was a year into college, he realized he didn't even like business, much less administrating it so he shifted to Criminology ("You remember how I always liked _NCIS_, right?"). He entered the police academy after graduation and now he was a patrol officer in the Lima PD. Rachel is struggling to focus on what he's saying but it's difficult, what with Finn being…vehicularly challenged plus his own desire to get her to the ER as quick as possible. She is, however, enjoying watching his face light up as he tells her his stories. She missed a lot being away for so long. She missed her friend. She notices him looking at her from the corner of his eye, probably itching to ask her the same questions she's been asking him. Thankfully, he knows enough not to ask about what she's been doing for the past 2 years. Not much, but enough.

They pull up, screeching, to the ER entrance. As he hurries her in, she asks, "So who is this person we're looking for?"

"Just an old friend," Finn replies nonchalantly.

Her radar pings. He sounded _too_ nonchalant. Finn never did nonchalant (she wasn't even sure he knew what 'nonchalant' was). Soon enough, she spots the "old friend" and she grins, understanding. "Nevermind, I found her."

She hasn't seen Quinn Fabray since Christmas break, junior year, before the girl suddenly moved to her sister's in North Carolina. She looks very different from the disgraced Queen Bee she was before. For one, the Cheerio uniform has been replaced by scrubs. For another, she doesn't look like she wants to bitchslap Rachel for just existing. Right now, the most she does is stare at the tiny specter from the past standing in front of her, hand on her hip.

"Rachel Berry," she drawls.

"Hi Nurse Quinn!" Finn chirps, giving her a sweet grin.

Quinn's face softens. "You really should stop calling me that, Finn."

"Hello, Quinn." Rachel tries a smile on for size and is surprised when the other girl gives a genuine smile back. "I seem to have gotten into a bit of an accident and I require your assistance," she says, showing her hand.

Quinn rolls her eyes at her former high school nemesis playfully. "Glad to know some things haven't changed. Well, get over here then."

While Quinn is applying antibacterial ointment to her wound and bandaging her hand, Rachel watches Finn over her shoulder. He is gazing at the back of Quinn's head in a very familiar way. She feels like she's gone back in time, back to the beginning of junior year when the places were switched and Finn was her boyfriend while Quinn was the girl he couldn't have. The girl he kept staring at when he thought Rachel wasn't looking. She rolls her eyes. You can take the kids out of high school but you can't take the high school out of the kids.

When Finn turns his head away, she can also see Quinn sneaking glances at him from time to time. Interesting. "So, I'm a little hungry. Can we get anything to eat around here?" Rachel asks cheerily, an amused smile tugging at her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Again, thanks for the wonderful response to the last chapter! You guys _complete _me ;)**

**As promised, here's the next chapter. Oh and I know I should've said this at the start but spoilers up to the most recent aired episode. Enjoy, guys!  
**

* * *

Scratch her previous thought. She _knows_ she's gone back in time, now that she is actually falling in line at a cafeteria with both Finn and Quinn. Maybe if she waits long enough, she'll get pasta in her face again.

"I know it's a horrible cliché but I'm a little worried about the food available. It's one thing for it to be 'cafeteria food' but what does it mean when it's '_hospital_ cafeteria' food?"

"For God's sake, Rachel, just pick something!"

Rachel huffs in annoyance and grabs a bowl of something that purports to be a garden salad. Plopping it on her tray, she shoots a triumphant look at Quinn, who rolls her eyes for the nth time in the last 15 minutes.

"I think you may have gone soft, Quinn. I'm pretty certain the old you would have clawed my eyes out by now," Rachel wonders aloud as they get to the cash register. In response, the mature and grown-up Quinn Fabray, RN sticks her tongue out.

Finn, sandwiched in line by the two women, is trying not to laugh out loud. They make their way to a vacant table, serenaded by his suppressed snickering.

"Sooo…when did you come back to Ohio?" Rachel says before digging into her meal. She's hoping any conversation would distract her from the slightly brown and limp lettuce in front of her.

"Around two months ago. My dad," Quinn clears her throat uncomfortably. "He had a heart attack and he…passed away. My mom was all alone and she asked me to stay. I mean, it's hard to forget that she didn't say a word when my dad threw me out on my ass when I was 16 but at the end of the day, she's still my mom…so here I am."

Rachel's heart breaks a little for her. She knows the difficulties Quinn has had with her parents after the whole pregnancy debacle but she also knows the pain of losing someone. Spontaneously, she reaches across the table and squeezes Quinn's hand.

Quinn gives her a grateful smile. "I loved living in North Carolina and Katie was more than happy to have me there but I guess it was time for me to go home." She shakes her head and gets down to business. "But enough about me. Your turn. What brings you back here?" Her unwavering stare is so much like Head Cheerio Quinn that Rachel is intimidated for a second. Just for a second, mind you.

Finn joins in. "Yeah Rach, why _are_ you back?"

"My own reason isn't quite as dramatic," she replies self-deprecatingly. "I just had a few days off from rehearsals and there were some business matters I needed to fix so I thought I'd come down," and she shrugs.

Finn still looks suspicious but Quinn seems to accept her answer readily enough. "That's cool. Are you staying with your dads?"

"Well, see, that's my problem. I'm not quite sure where I'm staying." Rachel toys with her salad. "Idiot that I am, I forgot to call ahead and now I find out that my dads are away for the next few days. I guess it's going to be the Days Inn for me."

"Days Inn sucks. Why can't you stay at your dads'? I mean, you kinda broke in already, I'm sure it's okay," Finn says, munching on his fries.

Her jaw tenses. "I…I don't really like staying in a house alone," she admits guardedly, her voice so soft they can barely hear her.

Finn looks uncomfortable with this admission, a reaction that confuses Quinn. She looks at Rachel and sees a stoic mask in place of the relaxed contours it had been in just a few seconds ago. "Nevermind. You can stay with me," she says briskly, interrupting the uncomfortable silence and surprising Rachel with the offer.

Her eyebrow quirks. "Really? This isn't part of your master plan that involves smothering me in my sleep, is it?"

Quinn smirks in reply. "Don't worry; I'll try to restrain myself."

"Well, I just wanted to be sure where we stood," Rachel says with a serious nod followed by a wink.

"The only problem is my shift ends at 10 pm," Quinn explains. "You think you can find something to do with yourself until then?"

Finn startles them when he suddenly jumps into the conversation like an overexcited puppy. "Hey, you can come with me to Artie and Tina's!" At Rachel's blank look, he elaborates. "We're having this thing tonight. You should really come with, Rach."

She hesitates. "I don't know, Finn. I don't think I'm up to seeing...everyone."

Apparently, Finn learned the art of persuasion from a 12-year-old girl because he continues to cajole Rachel into going by batting his eyelashes and pouting his lips. "Come on, Rachel, it'll be fun."

The girls are trying very hard to contain their giggles. It just wouldn't do to laugh at the big, tall police officer man. "Fine," Rachel finally manages to say.

"Awesome."

* * *

After dropping off Karl and her things at Quinn's place (to which, Rachel was very fascinated to note, Finn had a key), they drive to Artie and Tina Abram's house. Apparently, this get-together was an excuse to gather at a designated gleek's home, pig out on takeout from Happy Daz, drink alcohol and watch Brittany compete on a reality show.

(_"Brit's on SYTYCD!"_

"_I'm sorry—what?"_

"_So You Think You Can Dance!"_

"_That show is still on?")_

Santana Lopez is a big surprise. Rachel had heard from Finn that she was still in town but it had never occurred to her that she would willingly spend time with people she used to think were beneath her. When Santana walks in, she is sure that while Quinn may have given up on bitchslapping people, this woman was the one who was going to restore balance to the bitchslapping universe.

"RuPaul," Santana says coolly.

"Satan," she replies, just as coolly.

Then she gets the biggest surprise of the day when Santana grabs her and just about suffocates her in a huge hug. "OMFG, it's good to see you! Where have you been, bitch?"

She then proceeds to drag her to the kitchen to chat with Tina, rambling on about her job as the new Cheerios coach after Sue Sylvester was dismissed under suspicion of terrorism. To say that Rachel is stunned by this turn of events is an understatement. Still, she's the one gossiping with Santana like they've been best friends their whole lives and thoroughly enjoying it. A while later, the show starts and the gathered adults cheer on their friend who has made it all the way to the finals. They giggle when Cat Deeley interviews Brittany and she responds in her own inimitable manner (_"What did you feel when you were doing this routine, Brittany?" "I felt like a unicorn. A pretty one."_). When the time comes to vote, each person is on their respective phone, dialing like mad.

_This...is not the hardship I thought it would be_, Rachel thinks as she surveys the living room full of former gleeks. She is loath to admit it but apparently, being back on the island of misfit toys is beneficial to her well-being. She hasn't smiled or laughed this much in so long. There is music in the air as Artie cranks up the volume on the stereo and Finn starts grooving to some old school jams. A snort escapes her as she watches him (the man once dubbed "Frankenteen") try to recreate the infamous 'Good Vibrations' dance. Sadly, his footwork isn't as fancy as it was back in the day (which really wasn't saying much) and with an almighty thump, Frankenteen goes down. Santana and Tina are on the couch, rolling with laughter, no small feat for the very pregnant Mrs. Abrams. It just went to show that some routines just didn't get better with time.

Hard to believe this hasn't been her life in the past 2 years. It's like no time has passed and she fits in, is at home, as she always did. Her neck prickles at the thought and she brushes it away. No point dwelling on it; she is going to enjoy this for what it is and tomorrow, she'd finish what she came here for. In a day, 2 days tops, she'll be on her way back to New York and back to her _real _life. But in the meantime, she's going to make good use of the opportunity she has been given. Mission #1: grilling her ex-boyfriend.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," she turns to Finn during a lull in conversation. "But I just have to know – you and Quinn? What's going on there?"

Finn chokes on his beer. "N-Nothing."

The others are looking at them in amusement and Rachel gives him a look that clearly says 'I know there's nothing going on but why isn't there _anything_ going on?'

The big lug actually blushes. "I'm working on it, okay?"

"How?" Rachel stares him down. "Not that I'm harboring any ill feeling towards you but the little I can remember about our own high school romance is the fact that I was doing much of the wooing, not the other way around."

"Hey!" he protests. "I wasn't that bad!"

Artie butts in. "Um, yeah, you kinda were. Dude, I had so much more game than you, it was just sad." This earns him a pillow in the face, which escalates into a full-blown pillow fight.

(Later when it's just the two of them, Finn pulls Rachel aside: "It's just different with Quinn, I guess," he finally manages to say. "She's always been the girl that got away." This, in turn, earns him a kiss on the cheek and a whispered "In that case…good luck".)

Once she's done with her shift, the girl in question joins them. She is just in time to catch Finn, Santana and Rachel dancing to 'Ice, Ice Baby'. After they almost collapse in laughter and exhaustion, everyone starts filling Rachel in on what's been happening in the last 2 years. Artie, she learns, is a certified psychologist specializing in children with disabilities. He went to California with Tina for college and after 7 years of dating, they finally got married in a huge ceremony in Ohio.

(_"She's the ketchup to my French fries."_

"_Awww!")_

Five months ago, Tina found she was pregnant with fraternal twins, around the same time she became the new drama teacher and assistant director of glee at McKinley High. Kurt, as Rachel already knew, has been Finn's stepbrother since Burt Hummel and Carole Hudson got married their junior year of high school. What she doesn't know is that Kurt dropped out of Parsons when he got a job in the industry.

_("Kurt's in LA. He's a stylist on that TV show ATMN, ANMT, something like that…"_

"_You mean America's Next Top Model?"_

"_Yeah, that's the one!"_

"_That show is still _on_?"_

"_I think it's on, like, cycle 34…"_

"_Bitch, you wouldn't believe the shit Kurt's been telling me about Tyra!")_

Matt and Mercedes are in Chicago and married, but not to each other. Matt is an architect while Mercedes is a news anchor on WLS-TV, trying to become the next Oprah. Mike is directing music videos in LA and living with his Russian model girlfriend. They get to discussing Mr. Schuester, who, despite all of the drama and the effort, is still in a 'will-they-or-won't-they' situation with Ms. Pillsbury. They titter when they recount his very public romance with Shelby Corcoran (something that will never fail to squick Rachel out because really? Her mother and the teacher she used to crush on?) and the subsequent break-up. Apparently, Mr. Schuester, or Will as he insisted they call him, just moved to a new house further away from the city center and would be having a housewarming party in 3 days. Rachel tells them a little about her new role and a few stories about Richard and the rest of the cast. But any query about something other than her job and she turns evasive.

(_"So, is there a Mr. Rachel Berry back in NYC?"_

"_I'm not at that point in my life right now. I'm focusing on my career rather than on my personal life."_

"_Amen, sister."_)

Soon, the night is winding down and Tina is looking exhausted. "Did we miss anyone? I think that's pretty much all of the gleeks," she groans from her sprawled position on the couch.

"Not unless you count Brad, who, I'm happy to report, is a star on the piano bar circuit in Columbus," Santana reclines on an armchair, slightly slurring her words because of 5 beers and 2 glasses of wine.

"Oh! We forgot about Puck!" Quinn suddenly sits up. "I can't believe we forgot him. You know, I haven't heard anything about him since I moved back."

Ignoring Finn desperately shaking his head and making slashing motions across his throat, Artie nods his head enthusiastically. "Puck! Oh yeah, he was supposed to—"

Before Artie can continue, Rachel coughs violently."I-I'm feeling a little parched. I think I'll just—" Pushing her chair back so fast, it nearly topples over, she makes a quick escape to the kitchen.

Breathing hard, she drops her head against the cool steel of the refrigerator. She can handle this. _She can_. It's not like she didn't know he would be coming up in conversation. Breathe in, breathe out, Rachel. Pouring herself a glass of water becomes a bigger challenge than she expected when her hand is clutching the glass so hard, she fears it will break. She takes a sip of the cold water and tries to get her thoughts in order. _Man up, Berry, _gripes the voice in her head. _You didn't come all the way here to breakdown in Wheels' kitchen. _In this state, she misses the sound of the door opening, the music being turned down and the murmur of conversation restarting in the other room.

She takes a few more minutes in the quiet of the kitchen and soon, she feels human again. Well, at least 70% human, which is practically good enough. Maybe now she could go back to the other room now and face their questions honestly at last. She squares her shoulders and turns around.

And meets a familiar pair of bright hazel eyes for the first time in 2 years.

"What are you doing here?"

A smirk and an eyebrow raise. "Now, now, Berry…is that any way to say hello to your husband?"

* * *

**AN: *dodges rotten apple* Don't hate me! Relax, the next chapter will do a lot to clear up some things. Until then...review please? I'm a sucker for reviews :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Okay, this ended up being _way_ longer than I had planned it to be. What could I do? Puck wanted to have his say AND take a trip down memory lane at the same time. The guns of Puckerone have spoken, so mote it be.**

**So in this chapter, we continue right where we left off. It's going to be a little weird with the majority being in Puck's POV. And to be safe, anyone who hasn't seen "Journey" yet might want to step off. For the sake of this story, a) Beth was not adopted by Shelby and b) Rachel has a far, far better relationship with her mother.**

**Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! I never expected other people to actually be interested in what goes on in the recesses of my admittedly weird mind. You guys rock so much :) **

* * *

"Hello, Noah."

"That's all you have to say to me? 2 fucking years and all I get is a 'hello'?'" He actually snorts in disbelief. There is an angry glint in his eye as he continues sarcastically. "I mean, you don't call, you don't write…I was beginning to think there was something wrong."

Rachel's hands fist at her sides. This, _this _is what she was trying to avoid. "What are you doing here?" she asks again, calmly.

"Finn called me. Told me to show up at Wheels' place, said it was important. Wasn't sure I'd make it 'cause work's been running late but now I'm glad I came. I wouldn't have missed this." He punctuates his statement with an obvious leer at the amount of leg her dress is exposing.

His grin is mocking. "But enough about me. What I want to know is what you'redoing here, _Mrs. Puckerman_. Tell me, what natural calamity got you crawling back to this hellhole? Whatsamatter, Broadway didn't want you anymore?"

He is deliberately pushing her buttons and she knows it. And can't help but react to it. But God help her, she wasn't going to do this here. Not when things could get ugly.

Her voice is steely and clipped. "This isn't the time and place to discuss…anything, Noah."

"Oh, I think this is the perfect time and place, Rachel," he counters, relishing the sound of her name. "Hell, why don't we bring in the whole gang and _discuss_ exactly how my wife left me in the middle of the night with no warning, no nothing? That's one story I'd really like to hear."

Something that feels remarkably like guilt stabs her but she refuses to let him see that how his words have affected her. Instead, she studies the man in front of her carefully. His face reflects a myriad of emotions that she can't quite identify. His darkened eyes meet hers and the flash of memory that accompanies it makes her flinch.

He looks almost the same as he did the day she left – same close-cropped dark hair, same chiseled features, same muscular built. He is wearing his black leather jacket (her brain persists in reminding her that it is not the old one, not his father's, that made him look like a hoodlum, but one that she had given him that one Christmas). Under that, he has on a dress shirt and dark ripped jeans. She is momentarily taken aback with how mature he looks and she wonders when the garage started requiring him to dress like that. But what surprises her most is the wedding band still on his left ring finger, the partner to the one she has hidden among her other jewelry (no matter how persistent her brain is, she steadfastly refuses to name the feeling bubbling in her chest at this discovery).

He ventures closer, invading her personal space like he used to, and she gets a whiff of spice, leather and wood. After all this time, he even smells the same. Then she catches the distinct odor of alcohol on his breath and suddenly realizes that everything is _exactly_ the same.

She backs away, smoothing out her skirt – a nervous tic she hasn't quite gotten rid of. "I don't want to go into this with you. Not here." She makes her way around him towards the exit when his arm shoots out and his fingers curl around her arm. She attempts to shake him off, to get rid of the spark that singed her skin at his touch and her eyes fly upwards in barely restrained ire. "Let go of me, Noah."

"What? I can't even kiss my wife?" he whispers roughly, his lips barely brushing her ear. He is close, far too close – she can feel the warmth of him pressed against her and the roughness of his fingers as his thumb begins to gently rub circles on her skin over and over again. It's distracting her from her anger, no matter how much she wants to hold on to it. She hisses through her teeth in frustration. His fingers get tighter and suddenly he's leaning down, his face inches from her own.

They are interrupted by a gasp coming from the doorway. "Wait a minute...what-you guys are actually married?" Artie looks at them strangely.

Quinn is dazed. "So it's…Rachel Puckerman?"

Rachel had forgotten that they weren't alone. Their friends have identical gobsmacked expressions on their faces as they take in the scene, all except Finn, who is the only one that doesn't look surprised by the information. Everyone else is watching them with a sort of morbid fascination, Tina looking as if she's one barb away from calling 911; Finn just looks guilty.

She jerks her arm away from his loose grasp. "Technically, it's Rachel Berry-Puckerman," she confirms testily. "It is within my legal right to appropriate 'Rachel Berry' or 'Rachel Puckerman' as my name."

Puck laughs bitterly at this. Rachel ignores him and instead addresses Tina and Artie. "Thank you both for having me. I'm sorry but I think I'm going to have leave earlier than expected."

The two barely have time to nod numbly back at her before she books it for the front door.

"Oh, leaving so soon? Well, you were always so good at that!" Puck shouts at her departing back.

Finn gives him a hard look then runs after Rachel, with Quinn trailing behind. Puck seems to finally realize that he is left with a captive audience, all with questions that needed answering.

"Fuck this," he growls and leaves through the back door, not before snagging the remaining six-pack of beer.

The ones left behind are stuck in an uncomfortable silence. Eventually, Santana breaks it with a loud exhalation. "Well, this is a hot damn mess," she sighs.

* * *

"Rachel! Rachel, wait!"

She is plodding across lawns and driveways with as much speed as her 3-inch heels can take her. It is nearly midnight and she doesn't really know where she's going, only that it has to be far away. Her heels are sinking into the soft wet soil but still she marches on. Dimly, she can make out that it is Finn shouting for her to stop. But she can't. Momentum is the only thing that's carrying her…that's preventing her from screaming her lungs out on someone else's front yard.

She was blindsided by the amount of anger she had felt in that small room, and not just coming from him. The hurt she felt, the pain that bled into her gut, these were all things she had thought she had let go of. Apparently, spending the last 2 years forgetting how to feel weren't enough.

"Manhands, if you don't stop right there, I swear to God I will unleash the fury of a nurse after an exhausting 6-hour duty on you."

This gets her to stop abruptly and try to hide behind normalcy. "I can't do a dramatic exit if you two keep stopping me."

Finn claps a comforting hand on her shoulder but she shrugs it off and rounds on him. "_You_. You were the one that called him."

"Rachel, I-I—"

"I can't believe you, Finn! It was just going to be Artie, Tina and Santana there, you said. What harm could there be, you said! God, just…stop. Stop meddling in my life!" Each word is accompanied by a sharp jab on his behemoth chest. "You don't know anything, okay?"

He swats her finger away. " Well, why don't you tell me then? Why did you leave, Rach, huh? Why did you leave him? Because he sure as hell never talks about it."

"And for once, we actually agree on something," she retorts sarcastically. "This is none of your business, Officer Hudson." With that, she turns to leave.

Finn runs around to stop her. "Clearly, it should be. Is this about Ca—"

She looks at him with such fury in her eyes, he takes a step back and for the first time in his life, he is actually scared of Rachel Berry. "_Don't. _Don't _fucking_ say her name," she bites out. "Just shut up and leave me alone."

He steps to the side to let her go and it is only then she remembers the presence of another person. Quinn has been watching the display intently but silently, probably deciding whether to stick around or run for the hills.

It suddenly feels like all the fight has drained out of her. "Quinn, can we go home now please?"

Quinn sneaks a quick look at Finn and nods. "Come on, my car's right there. If you want, I could screech the tires as we pull away. That dramatic enough for you?" This earns her a teary laugh.

She puts an arm around Rachel and leads her over to the car. "I got it from here," she whispers when they pass the stock-still figure watching them.

They are buckled in and just pulling out of the space when Quinn decides to try her luck. "So you and Puck, huh? How did that that happen?"

Rachel keeps her back turned to her.

"Isn't it funny that the four of us always end up doing this screwed up version of musical chairs?"

Still no answer.

"Rachel, are you okay?"

She sighs wearily. "Just drive, Quinn."

She knows Quinn doesn't deserve the silent treatment – she has been more than kind to her, opening up her home to her. But as she stares out at the darkened Lima streets, she can't find it in herself to care right now. And Quinn drives on.

* * *

_Clank._

_Clank._

_Clank._

The sound of empty beer cans hitting the metal rim of a trash can is the only thing to be heard from the baseball diamond in Faurot Park. Midnight and it's empty, except for a lone figure sitting at the top of the bleachers, playing a makeshift game of basketball. Three beers into the lame-ass game and he still hasn't sunk one in.

_Clank._

Fucking cans.

Fucking Rachel Berry(-Puckerman).

What the fuck was she doing back here?

He feels like that douchebag from that stupid play she made him watch when they were dating. Half of him wanted to rage and scream and just fucking let her have it. She had been the one to give up. She had been the one who left.

He turns the cold metal band around his finger over and over again. Everyone you love leaves you – that was one thing he had learned from an early age, since the day his dad left his mom with a depleted bank account, a little girl in her belly and one angry, heartbroken boy. He had thought he'd learned his lesson well…until the day he decided to give everything he had to a tiny brunette with a big voice.

"_Noah, I love you. You're my best friend. Today I give myself to you in marriage. I promise to believe in you even when you can't believe in yourself, to laugh with you even when you're laughing at me, and to love you even when you're impossible to love. I will never leave you and I will be by your side, in good times and in bad, when life seems easy and when it seems hard. This I vow. "_

_Liar_, he wanted to rage.

The other half…well, it just wanted to hold her like he used to (and do a lot of things to her, just like he used to). She looked better than the last time he'd seen her. Her hair was longer, styled in the loose curls he'd always loved, and her face had (thankfully) filled out. He hated to admit it but he'd been watching her move around in that kitchen for a while without her knowing it, the hem of her dress swishing across her thighs, the way the bright green color made her skin glow. Total stalker move but give him a break. He hasn't seen the woman in 2 years. The woman he had married when he was 18.

He scrubs a hand across his hair. He'd ditched the Mohawk but kept it cut very short. Any longer and it would be as curly as the mop on his Uncle Ben's head. He remembers how she used to nag him about the return of the 'hawk, senior year, how it wasn't becoming for a musician of his caliber and potential and didn't he know that first impressions, no matter how misleading, could hasten one's path towards stardom or lead to a mediocre career of bargain basement CDs. He also remembers laughing at her crazy before kissing her and telling her to never change. She had huffed at him in indignation but soon he had her laughing as well.

Far cry from the cold woman he'd faced barely an hour ago. No, it wasn't how he imagined things would go. He lets out a sardonic laugh, which echoes oddly in the darkness. Hell, his whole life didn't turn out the way he imagined it would.

_It had started with kissing, like it always did with them. One minute, they're just friends, everything's normal, she's yapping about some Tony dude and he's pretending he gave a shit; the next, they're on her bed, her stuffed animals probably ducking for cover, tongues tangling, hands roaming, mouths fighting for control._

_He doesn't know what was different about it this time. Maybe it was because dating Finn the whole of junior year got her over her silly high school fantasies. Maybe it was because losing Beth and being with Quinn got him to mature, even a little. Or maybe they were just finally ready. One thing he knows for sure is that the girl who threw a hissy when he groped her boobs sophomore year is the same girl who sexed him up in the back of his truck on their second "official" date senior year. Let's just say the Puckerone enjoys the many, many fruits of having Berry as his girl. _

_He just didn't count on it getting complicated. He didn't count on caring so much or enjoying spending time with her (even when she had all her clothes on). He didn't count on the flutter he got in his stomach (Shut the fuck up! Those were some badass butterflies) whenever she smiled. He didn't count on her unbridled belief in him and him actually wanting to be a better guy just to deserve it. He didn't count on the way she accepted him, scars and all, and the part where he ended up loving every annoying thing about her (What? A bossy Rachel is a hot Rachel). _

_He didn't count on wanting more. Just more. More of her, more of __them.__ This came as a big shock to him, who had never wanted more when he could have less with half the effort and the time. He was the fucking king of convenience._

_Yeah, well, the king never counted on falling in love with crazy Rachel Berry._

_Then one day, he's lying in bed with her, her cute little hand drawing circles on his chest and bam! "I love you." _

_She stiffens in his arms and he's scrambling to find an excuse (chick was like a CIA operative, she practically tortured it out of him!). Then he's freaking the shit out because he doesn't want an excuse and generally feeling like a total pussy until she looks up at him, smiles and says, "I know. I love you too." _

_He's not going to admit it that at that moment, everything was goddamned perfect. Well, at least until she climbed on top of him. _

_Turns out post-"I love you" sex? Best. Thing. Ever._

_He's pretty sure, with this girl, he's made up for all the stupid crap he's pulled on his mom. Aviva Puckerman got all giddy and excited and was all "Oh, Rachel is such a good Jewish name". Yeah, it was _so_ on the tip of his tongue to tell her the girl she called "Amazing Jewish Rachel" like she was some sort of superhero was actually named after a spoiled WASP princess on a canceled TV show. He loved the woman; he didn't want to, like, ruin her dreams. _

_So his mother and sister? They love her. Her dads' thoughts on him? Not really the same. He's not sure but he thinks that they're scared he's going to (her words, not his) whisk her off into a life of depravity and violence where she'll end up a tattooed coke addict/ex-con. Who didn't sing. Still, they manage to restrain themselves from loading up the old shotgun and once he started coming around more often for family dinners and sports night (who knew Berry was such a huge baseball fan?), he swears the glares have stopped. Mostly. _

_Yeah, Noah Puckerman has finally got it made. He graduated (suck it, McKinley!), there's a job waiting for him at the Hummel's garage, him and Finn are bros again, he's been accepted to OSU, plus he gets the whole house to himself this weekend and the whole summer with his girl before she goes off to New York (and yeah, don't think he's not gonna get some phone sex practice in because long-distance relationships are hell)._

_He doesn't expect said girl to be waiting for him on the porch swing when he gets home from a Call of Duty marathon with the guys. He grins and swoops in for a kiss, not noticing the paleness of her cheeks and the tracks of dried tears at first. When he does notice, she spares him any suspense. _

"_I'm pregnant," she blurts out._

_That feeling of being hit by a semi? It's there. Her lips are still moving and she's saying something but it doesn't get through the roaring in his ears. He can't help but think of that other girl who had once thought so little of him and of his baby girl growing up somewhere out there. This is different, he thinks. He needs this to be different. He interrupts her tirade, with a voice so strangled and strange that he's going to deny it ever happened. "Are you gonna keep it?_"

"_Noah, I—", she rests a hand on her still flat stomach. "I-I don't think I can give it up. This is our baby." She looks up at him and he doesn't think he's ever seen her so shaken. "But what does this mean? What are we going to do? How are we- what about- oh dear heavens, my fathers are going to kill me!"_

_He can't tell her how much hearing that meant to him now that she is rambling through her tears, about New York and college and her scholarship and her dads. He can hear the words "disappointment" and "future" in there somewhere but the only thing he can think about is how much he wants this. He's an 18-year-old guy; he's supposed to be freaking out and being scared shitless but he's not. Not really. He isn't scared of what her dads were going to do or what would happen in the future. What scares him right now is realizing how much he wants this woman, this baby, this life. How he couldn't imagine being with anyone else, loving anyone else. It's fucking terrifying._

_What's also terrifying is how she's screeching, something he's pretty sure only dogs can hear. Plus he's afraid she's getting so worked up, she's going to give herself an embolism or something._

"_You're panicking," he interrupts again, calmly._

_She looks at him like he's insane. "Of course I'm panicking! Join me, won't you?"_

_He sits beside her and pulls her to his chest. She muffles her sobs in the crook of his neck while he rubs her back gently. "Baby, relax. It's okay. _It's okay_."_

"_Okay?" She nearly deafens him when she shouts almost directly in his ear. "How is this okay? How can you be okay with this? This is not okay!"_

_Her crying has deteriorated into hiccups but he can feel her getting her second wind and launching into another eardrum-busting meltdown. So he shuts her up the best way he knows how._

"_You know one of these days, that's not going to work," she snipes as she pulls back, her lips swollen and her pupils blown._

_He looks at her then, at this tiny package of ambition and sweetness, and he understands what he has to do._

_"Marry me."_

_"You're crazy."_

_"Then we'd be a matched pair or something. Crazy with a side of Crazier"._

_She looks at him in shock._

_"I want us to be a family, Rachel."_

"_Noah," she starts softly. "I'm not marrying you just because we're having a baby."_

"_Then marry me because you love me."_

"_Noah—"_

"_No, hear me out." He pauses to take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. His eyes find hers, wide chocolate brown eyes swimming in pools of unshed tears. "I'm no saint. I've never done anything good in my life but somehow, I managed to get you. You're _it_ for me, B. You are the best thing to ever happen to me."_

_He kisses her softly and thumbs away the tears that have started to fall again. "You get it yet? I'm not asking you to marry me because I have to…I'm asking you because I want to. I know we're like a lot ahead of schedule but I want this. I want to spend the rest of my fucking life with you. I love you and all the insane, weirdass shit that you pull. And even if I only found out, like, a few seconds ago, I already love the little evil spawn. So yeah…will you marry me?"_

"_Okay," she whispers._

"_Okay? What the hell does that mean, Berry? Is that a yes?"_

"_That would be a fuck yes," and gives him her megawatt grin. He is shocked (and horny, because Berry cursing is damn hot) but soon he's grinning as well. Embarrassingly huge grins on both of their faces which turns into delighted laughter._

_They were really doing this. He feels a mixture of awe, happiness and relief. Don't get him wrong, he's still one messed up teenager who happens to have a(nother) baby on the way. But maybe, with her by his side, they'd get through this. _

"_We're gonna be okay, B. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of the both of you," he whispers as he places soft kisses on her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her collarbone all but bringing her to tears again with how sweet he's being. He gets to her stomach, to where his thumb is unconsciously rubbing circles on her skin, and he kisses it. And all he can think of while he is doing it is "Mine"._

"_B?"_

"_Yes, Noah?_

"_Hey, if it's a boy, can we call him Hendrix?"_

"_Don't spoil the moment."_

"_Come on, we have to start thinking about this. How about Morrison? Oh I know! Zappa!"_

_Her peals of laughter still ring in his ear by the time he scoops her in his arms to do a little celebrating. He was still going to have to deal with her fathers and there was the whole issue of what they were going to do next but right now, it was perfect. They were going to be a family. They were going to be okay._

Hard to believe that was them. They were so happy. So hopeful.

How the fuck did they end up here?

He tosses the last beer can and watches, satisfied, as it finally drops inside. Bullseye.

* * *

**AN: Hopefully it wasn't too weird. Please leave a review and tell me what you think. Seriously, you'd make my fucking day if you just say hello ;) **

**Might be a bit of a wait for the next chapter though, since I've having a lot of trouble getting Rachel and Puck to fight. So next one will have some Puckerman vs. Puckerman and a some more of the questions will be answered.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Guys, your reviews...*hugs everyone*. Thank you so much. I'm sorry if I haven't responded to each every one but things have been kinda hectic right now. Hence the longer than usual wait for the update. Also, this chapter totally kicked my ass. I hope the bullets I sweated over this was worth it. I'm scared of what you guys will think of it so please, review? Each and every one makes my day and makes me do better :)

Oh and some people have mentioned _Sweet Home Alabama_ in their reviews and I'd just like to clear it up by saying that while it was one of the inspirations for this, you're not going to find Sweet Home Alabama 2.0 here. There will be more than a few surprises in store.

* * *

Somewhere in the recesses of his still-bleary mind, he can figure out two things.

One, he hasn't gotten drunk in such a long time that 6 beers, once a routine part of his regular Saturday night, is now enough to leave him seriously hung-over. And the part he hated the most was the fact that he got drunk off light beer. _Light beer_.

Two, he is pretty sure that no matter the circumstances of the hangover, it isn't normal to wake up hearing Roger Daltrey screaming in your ear about teenage wasteland. Wait a minute. His eyes pop open and he gropes underneath his pillow for his phone. Sure enough, it's Finn, set to the tune of 'Baba O'Riley'.

"Finally! What took you so long to answer, man?" grouses his best friend.

"Good morning to you to, Finnessa. Miss me, didya? That why you're calling this fucking early?"

"Fuck you. Normal people like to get up before the crack of noon, you know."

"They're called losers. Look it up."

"I can't fucking believe I'm still friends with you."

"Whatever, Hudson. You know you live for this shit."

There was a time when Puck was sure they would never get back to this after Quinn and the baby and everything. He was pretty bummed over that for a while because even if the dude was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, Finn was still his bro. Always had been from the time when they were 8 years old and they had to explain to their 3rd grade class why they had moms but no dads, one because his dad was a hero and the other because his was a deadbeat. They had been best friends ever since and, because he had shit for brains, he had thrown it all away on one wine cooler-fueled night.

Then junior year and Rachel Berry happened. One day, he was moping around school like a pussy and the next, Finn was inviting him over to watch the Cavs like everything was back to normal. To this day, he still doesn't know what Rachel did (and whenever he thinks about it, of what could've been done and of Finn's hands being the ones _doing_, he gets the insane urge to cut off Finn's appendages).

"Look man, about last night...I think that you and Rachel need to talk."

"Gee, thanks for the advice, Oprah. By the way, how's that vagina workin' for ya?" Puck retorts. He pads downstairs to the kitchen and opens the fridge. Damn his mother, he thinks as he looks at all the healthy food she has stocked. There was fruit and vegetables and fish and – he shudders – _tofu. _He slams the fridge shut and contemplates a Mickey D run.

"Don't be an asshole just because you know I'm right."

He rolls his eyes (and hopes Finn can tell that he's rolling his eyes) and doesn't answer. He also refuses to admit that he _is_ right. Right now, he's fishing for his keys among the crap on the kitchen counter. Screw eating healthy. He needs a Big Mac just to forget this damned conversation.

"I get that you're pissed. I get that. This shit is screwed up. But I don't want to be the guy who watches in the background while his two friends are hurting. So if I have lock you two in a closet somewhere just to get you talking…"

"Fine," he bites out, his head throbbing. Damned woman. Only Rachel fucking Berry(-Puckerman, his brain insists on filling in) would give him this kind of a headache this early in the day.

"You wanna call her or go to Quinn's house or something?"

"I said I was gonna do it, Hudson. Stop acting like a fucking yenta and let me handle it!"

"Fine. Jeez, way to bite someone's head off…"

He rubs his hand on his face and huffs. "Sorry, man. Look, I'll try, okay? Just quit hasslin' me."

"Alright." Finn hesitates. "I'll talk to ya later, man. Got some things. Cop stuff and all that."

"Yeah, yeah. Send my love to Dunkin' Donuts." Then he hangs up before the guy can curse him out.

Yeah, he needs some good old-fashioned grease in his arteries if he wanted to survive seeing Rachel again.

* * *

She vacillates in front of the house for at least half an hour. She wasn't sure if he had moved back permanently to Lima but she had driven to Aviva's house on the off-chance that he was there. Sure enough, a very familiar black Sierra was parked in the driveway. That was 30 minutes ago. She couldn't seem to summon enough courage to get out of the van, much less walk up to the door.

_Come on, Rachel, you can do this. _She tightens her grip on the door handle. _Any moment now…_

She leans her head against the steering wheel and counts to 10. Then to 20. Then to 30. Before she can negotiate for 40, she looks up at the green painted house with the white door, the rosebushes and the porch, and is instantly assailed by memories. _Family dinners. Meeting Aviva. The porch swing_. However, she makes an effort to shake them off.

This wasn't the time and place to be sentimental.

With a deep breath and a determined set to her shoulders, she gets out of the car at last and marches to the front door. But for once, she isn't paying any attention to her surroundings and doesn't notice the front door opening until she almost ends up knocking on a wall of muscle. A glance upwards reveals those infuriatingly hazel eyes.

"Noah," she says dumbly. The man in question is looking for all the world like he just climbed out of bed in a sweatshirt and hastily worn jeans with an expression of complete bewilderment on his face.

To say he's dumbfounded (what? He knows words) when he sees her is a fucking understatement. Was the world out to get him today? "What are you doing here?" he asks gruffly.

It is only then she notices the keys clutched in his hand. "You're going somewhere?" _Great start to the conversation, Berry - answering his question with a question,_ remarks the Puck in her head.

"I was gonna go to McDonald's," he informs her reluctantly. He leans against the doorframe and studies the woman in front of him leisurely. Skinny jeans, heels, adult version of the Berry sweater, hair pinned back…_nice_. "So, to what to I owe this pleasure, Berry?"

"I…wanted to talk to you. And I'm hazarding a guess that after last night's events, you would be feeling a little under the weather so I got you your usual from Weisman's." At this, she hands him a brown paper bag.

He opens it suspiciously and peers inside. Two huge toasted bagels smothered with turkey bacon and jalapeño cream cheese and a black coffee – the best, most badass breakfast in the world (in the Puckerone's opinion) and his favorite hangover cure. He feels something in his chest (a pang? He refuses to answer that question) when he remembers how she used to grumble playfully at his rituals. She'd complain and she'd moan but years later, she would still remember.

He looks at her in amazement and more than a little bit of awe. If she wasn't so determined not to meet his gaze, she would have seen the tiny smile that flitted quickly over his face.

She clears her throat. "Where's Mo—Aviva?"

"Ma's off with Carole Hummel on a stupid cruise," he replies while simultaneously sniffing at the amazing contents of the bag. He gives her a knowing look. "And before you ask, Bec's on a school trip and won't be back until tomorrow."

She smooths down her sweater unnecessarily and asks calmly, "So you're alone?" So much better for the both of them if this conversation didn't have an audience.

"Yup, just me." He gets a glint in his eye. This should be fun. "And now, you. You're not afraid to be alone with me, are you?"

He's looking at her in that old familiar way and almost immediately, her body starts to feel hot all over. It annoys/horrifies/amuses her that she still reacts this way around him.

_Calm, cool and collected, _she repeats to herself. Rachel stares at him in what is hopefully a firm and no-nonsense manner. "Good to know you're still incapable of going more than ten minutes without making an innuendo."

He laughs – actually laughs – and wordlessly gestures her inside. She sweeps by serenely, followed by an entertained Puck, clutching his prize. He makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table and starts on his bagel. Standing there, her eyebrow quirks at his satisfied moan with the first bite and the slick of errant cream cheese on his chin. Refusing to watch him eat (who knew what innuendo he'd attribute to _that_), she turns her gaze elsewhere.

Her eyes dance over the rest of the house. Some things (the horrible horticultural living room wallpaper, the ever-present TV tray tables) hadn't changed at all. Other things (the brand-new beige sectional sofa, the sheer white curtains) reveal the passing of the years. Hopefully, it also meant that Becca had begun to exert a little influence on the style choices of her mother.

Rachel sends a fervent prayer above that that's what it meant.

Fingering the various refrigerator magnets (_"Welcome to Wisconsin!"_), she stills when she reaches an old photograph still stuck to the fridge wall. It's their wedding day and they are posing under the chuppah out in the Puckerman backyard. Noah's arm is around her middle, his hand on her burgeoning belly, both of their smiles blinding in their intensity.

She is so intent on what she is doing that she doesn't notice the pair of eyes watching her.

He has finished eating for while now and for once in his life, Puck is actively struggling not to think. Not to think about what the hell all of this meant. Not to think about how even just the _mention_ of this woman was enough to stir up so many conflicting emotions. Now he had to deal with her in front of him, smelling like she did, being in this house again.

Fucking. Messed. Up.

When she turns back to him, he is washing his hands of cream cheese remnants. He rests against the counter, wiping his hands and considers this woman – _his wife_ – standing in front of him. Time to stop the bullshit.

"I'm not stupid, Berry," he begins calculatingly. "I'm not gonna be distracted by some sort of fucking peace offering so why don't you come out and say what you really mean to say."

Rachel visibly tenses. _Just come out and say it. Like pulling off a band-aid. _She takes a breath, looks him in the eye.

"I want a divorce."

Puck knew the expression, had even been punched in the stomach before, hell, maybe even more than what should be considered normal. But this? This was getting knifed in the gut.

Fuck.

_Why do you even care, Noah?_, a voice in his head asks.

Because. _Because_, okay?

It shouldn't have been a surprise (again, not stupid) but try telling that to the rest of him. The motherfucking rest of him who apparently still had enough of heart to feel like it was breaking all over again. Goddamn, how fucked was it that he was still hung up on this woman? This woman who kept leaving, who didn't want anything to do with him. Well, he sure wasn't going to let her know that.

Face blank and face carefully devoid of any emotion, he shakes his head. "I guess I should have been expecting this. It's just surprising that I didn't get divorce papers in the mail the moment you left." A knowing pause. "Which makes me wonder what brought this on now."

He can read the strained lines of her body. "Let me guess," he drawls. "Rachel Berry finally found herself a nice boy who's perfect and awesome and pukes rainbows." The quick shuttered expression that veils her eyes is enough of an answer. He could always read her so well.

She remains silent as he chuckles humorlessly. He advances on her, making her step back hastily. "So, Rachel, this Mr. Perfect – tell me about him. Does he make you hot?" his rough voice growling petty little taunts. "Does he ever make you scream your pretty little head off? Does he ever make you so wet, you couldn't stand it?"

She can feel her cheeks heat up but she is firm. "Stop it, Noah. You're being a jerk."

His grin is callous as he leans down to whisper in her ear. His eyes are drawn to the grim set of her lips. "Funny, you didn't really answer the question. Face it, baby - you can't. You and me both know I'm the best that's ever been between your thighs."

Her blood is boiling with a mixture of anger, indignation and something else entirely by the time he moves away stiffly._ Just take it, Rachel. Take it and focus,_ she admonishes herself. She knows she deserves it, every insult, every jab. She just needs to keep calm and in control of the situation.

Still, it bothers her that all of that time perfecting her stage smile and controlling her emotions and somehow, this man still knows how to read every minute thing about her. It's disconcerting.

Her voice is deceptively unruffled. "We both know this is the right thing to do, Noah. It's been 2 years. Don't you want to move forward?"

His response is a bark of laughter. "Nope," he says, popping the 'p' obnoxiously. "I like being stuck."

"You would," she mumbles under her breath.

He turns around. "What the fuck did you say?"

A deep breath. "I said _you_ would." She doesn't know why but with that, her fight and frustration comes out. If she could get him to feel even a little of the hurt she's feeling… "I shouldn't have been surprised. You're still stuck in this house, in that stupid job, in this horrible town, like a fucking loser."

That was just twisting the knife in even further. "That's what I am, right? A Lima loser you just happen to be stuck with. Well, you sure didn't complain about the stupid job when it was supporting your sorry ass," he says heatedly. "And don't come flying in here all high and mighty thinking you know fuck all about everything. Who do you think paid for Ma's cruise? Who do you think is paying for Bec's trip and all her crazy dance classes?" His hand slams on the wooden table and she jumps. "Don't think you know me, princess, because you don't...not anymore."

"Why are you being so difficult about this, _Puck_?" she grits out. "It could be so easy to put this all behind us."

"It's that easy, huh? Just sign the papers and forget about all about your stupid _mistake._ Forget about me…forget about _her_. But hey, just sign the fucking papers and the last four years never happened like magic," he glares heatedly. Large tan hands tighten their grip the chair back. "Must be fun being you…not having to care at all."

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," her voice steely and clipped. Her nails bite into her hands as she clenches her fists.

He plans each cruel word for maximum impact. "Oh, I know what I'm talking about. How _is_ that working for you, Berry? Being a cold-hearted bitch?"

She is actually shaking in anger. "I'm not going to stand around and listen to this." She shakes her head and starts walking away.

"And there she goes again, ladies and gentlemen!" he shouts sarcastically. "Hey, the next time you feel like pulling another disappearing act, let me know in advance, okay? I'd love to sell tickets."

"I give up, it's like talking to a child," she mutters.

He catches up with her on her way to the door. With a firm grip on her arm, he whirls her around to face him. The heat of her skin burning his palm, he lets go just as quickly and unleashes all his fury, all his misery. "That's the only thing you know how to do, isn't it? Give up. I bet you don't even remember the promise you made. Do you remember that? You talked about love and till death do you part like it _meant_ something. Well, guess who was the first one out the door, baby? First sign of trouble and you ran. You're just a fucking hypocrite. You abandoned me, Rachel. "

His eyes flicker dangerously. "But then again, I probably should've expected it right? Once the reason we got married in the first place was gone, you had no reason to stick around. You didn't give a fuck. You never did."

Her hand flashes out and the sound of the slap echoes in the living room before he can make sense of the throb of his cheek. "How dare you?" her voice a low snarl before she bursts. "You want to talk about abandonment? Do you know how long I stuck around waiting for you actually notice that I was still alive, that I still needed you? Do you think it was easy for me to watch my husband drink himself to unconsciousness practically every night and then wake up and do it all over again? Do you even know how much it killed me to go? Of course you don't…because you weren't THERE! You never were! You weren't there when I cried myself to sleep waiting for you night after fucking night. You weren't there when I woke up from the nightmares. You wouldn't even say a word to me or acknowledge I existed so really I'm a little shocked you even noticed I was gone!"

She closes her eyes. She wasn't going to cry, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. "I know you blame me. I know it was all my fault. But don't you dare talk to me about caring and abandonment and other five-dollar words that you have no concept of. Because you talk a good game but at the end of the day, you left me first."

With that, she slams the door behind her loud enough to rattle the windows and he is left standing alone. Again.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **Okay, a confession: I wrote this chapter way before I wrote the last two ones. Let's just say your questions? Most will be answered in this update.

* * *

Quinn comes home from work exhausted and wanting nothing more than to collapse in front of the TV and drown her sorrows in some _Grey's Anatomy_. After a few months of living back home, she can count on certain routines and schedules. For instance, right now she expects to find her mother in the kitchen preparing dinner for herself, her daughter and now, an unexpected house guest. She makes her way to the kitchen and does indeed find Judy Fabray chopping vegetables for a salad. What she doesn't expect is the look her mother shoots at her, accompanied by a tilt of her head towards the backyard. It takes her a while to see what her mother meant.

Rachel is sitting on one of the loungers beside the pool. She has her knees drawn up to her chest, blue heels long discarded on the ground, and her gaze blank. Karl is on the small glass table beside it, meowing loudly in search of a little attention. Once in a while, a hand drops absently to run through the cat's fur but mostly, the woman outside is still and silent.

Quinn has been thinking about everything she's learned from last night - the revelation that Puck and Rachel are married being on the forefront of her mind. She felt – no, she knew – that there was more to the story. So much more. And she wonders once again how much things have changed.

She watches Rachel for a minute from the kitchen window before she joins her. Rachel doesn't say anything when she drops herself on the other lounger. Quinn notices her messy, unbound hair and the pale crescents on her palms. She knows something monumental has just happened but she doesn't say a word; just sits there beside the brunette as she stares at the orangey tint of the sky. They are silent so long, she almost jumps when she hears Rachel's voice.

"This wasn't how imagined my life would turn out, you know?" she starts, her voice strong and controlled. "I didn't even plan on dating any more high school boys, not after the colossal failure that was Finn and me. And getting married at 18 was definitely not part of my five year plan. But then Noah happened and we ended up dating in senior year and somehow…I end up falling for this crazy delinquent of a boy."

"You do realize you just called the boy who once dubbed you 'Berry Crazy', crazy," Quinn observes. "Strangely poetic, if you think about it."

Rachel is silent a beat before she continues. "I must've been crazy. _Happy_, but crazy. We had so many plans, too. Noah was going to OSU, I was offered a scholarship at the Tisch School at NYU and we were going to make it work long-distance somehow. Then after graduation, he would move to New York and we'd be together and things would just happen for us. I was all caught up in this little fairytale I had in my head. _There was supposed to be a plan_."

A deep breath."Then I found out I was pregnant."

Quinn had expected something like this but she keeps quiet as the other girl rambles on. "Noah…he'd wanted a family so bad since he was 8. I realized then I wanted it too, no matter that the order of things was a little screwed up, and I loved him _so_ much…so I turned down the scholarship and I stayed. He proposed and then he ended up not going to college either because he said his family was more important and…" She exhales and visibly tries to compose herself.

"My dads didn't understand. Hell, they didn't _want _to understand. They were mad, and then they were disappointed. They thought I was throwing all my dreams away for a boy. At one point, they even had my mom come and try to talk some sense into me but I didn't care. I was in love, we were having a baby…I couldn't care less about anything else."

Quinn doesn't notice Karl curling up on her lap just as Rachel doesn't pay attention to the nervous twisting of her fingers in her sweater. "We got married that summer. Just a small ceremony with a rabbi, Aviva, Becca, Finn, Kurt, Mr. Schue and my dad." Her voice breaks minutely. "Daddy refused to come at all."

"So basically, Finn and Kurt were the only ones who knew?" Quinn interrupts.

"Pretty much. Finn knew because he was the best man and Kurt knew because…he's Kurt. You were long gone. Mike, Matt, San and Brit had all left on their pre-college road trip. Mercedes was already in Illinois and Tina and Artie were all the way in California. It's not like we wanted to advertise it either. We moved to Cincinnati soon after so Noah could get a better paying job with this guy that my dad knew."

A smile blooms momentarily on her pale face. "She was born on Valentine's Day. Noah was pissed when I started going into labor on February 13, said he didn't want out baby to come out unlucky." There is an involuntary giggle at Puck's expense. "He definitely got his wish because I went through 16 hours of labor and she ended up arriving on the 14th. She comes out this 6 lbs, 2 oz hellion, squalling like a true Berry-Puckerman."

Rachel reaches into her pocket and pulls out a worn-out 3x5 picture that Quinn stares at in surprise. Too many times had it been folded, bent or damaged but one could still clearly see a little girl with dark chestnut curls, big hazel eyes and a little pout. "We named her Caroline Anne." She strokes the smiling face in the photograph. "Noah, of course, insisted on calling her Cupid or Valentina but I said until he pushed a baby out of his penis after 16 hours of torture, he'd have to keep his stupid names to himself."

"She's gorgeous." Quinn swallows down thoughts of another little girl, blue-eyed, beautiful and lost out there in the world. Bumping her shoulder with Rachel's, she teases lightly. "Bet she was a brat, considering her who her parents are."

Rachel lets out an amused laugh. "Hardly. She was like a sweet little ball of sunshine - never threw a tantrum, never fussed. Everyone just fell in love with her at first sight. My dads…well, they practically didn't talk to us before she was born but once she was there, it's like none of that even happened. And you know how Puck's mom feels about Jewish grandbabies…"

She tucks the photo away carefully and continues. "So after that, everything seemed to get better. We had enough money to move into a house instead of the cramped, god-awful apartment we had started in. Noah was still working as a mechanic but he also played in this band that did the club-wedding-bar mitzvah circuit. Then pretty soon Caroline was turning 2 and I had started working part-time as a vocal coach and we started making plans again..." she trails off.

Quinn hesitates. "What happened, Rachel?"

Rachel is silent so long that Quinn is afraid that she wouldn't answer the question at all. After several false starts, she starts talking. She manages to keep any emotion from seeping into her voice but it cracks anyway, as she flashes back to the day when it all fell apart. A distant part of her brain wonders if it mirrors her heart.

OOO

_It has started drizzling by the time she comes home from her shift at Olive Garden. The house is surprisingly silent; no TV blaring out the latest sports news, no Noah practicing riffs, no toddler jumping around joyfully at her coming home. She makes her way to their bedroom and is treated to the sight of her husband sprawled on their bed, a storybook lying open on his chest and a small bundle of purple romper-clad child smooshed into his side. His tan arm holds their daughter close and when Caroline starts making soft little snorting noises when thunder rolls outside, his other hand automatically reaches up to rub soothing circles on her back until she stops, without either of them ever waking up in the process._

_Rachel smiles at the picture they make, her big, strong husband cradling his precious bundle, and once again she marvels at how lucky she's been. There were times when she still thought about what might have been but one look at Caroline and the questions would go away. She was undoubtedly the best thing to ever happen to the either of them._

_She steps over to the side of the bed and maneuvers her out of her daddy's arms. Rachel loved having her daughter sleep with them sometimes but she didn't want any bad habits forming either. Besides, tonight she just wanted to be with her husband. Humming under her breath, she gently carries her daughter to her pink and purple room._

"_Mama?" a small voice whispers._

"_Shh…go back to sleep, babygirl."_

_She whimpers when Rachel lays her down in her crib and her little hands clutch in the air. _

"_Do you want mama to sing you a lullaby?" she asks as she strokes the curls off Caroline's forehead._

_Her daughter nods drowsily. "Yes pwease."_

_Rachel's classically trained voice is soft as she launches into Caroline's favorite lullaby, "Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high..." She especially loves hearing it with her daddy's voice and guitar joining in but tonight, it is the dulcet tones of her mother that puts her back to sleep. "Good night, sweetheart. Mama loves you."_

_She leaves Caroline sleeping soundly and clutching her favorite toy, a stuffed bunny appropriately named Mr. Bunny. She returns to the bedroom, idling singing some of the verses under her breath while taking off her clothes. She is down to her bra and her skirt when a voice out of the darkness says, "Keep going, Mrs. Puckerman."_

_She whirls around, hand on her rapidly beating heart, and sees her husband grinning lewdly at her. "Damnit, Noah! I thought you were sleeping."_

_He stretches on the bed and she can hear his joints pop. "Nah. Couldn't sleep." He wags his eyebrows. "Come over here and fuck me until I pass out from exhaustion?"_

_She laughs and tosses her shirt at him. "Pervert."_

_He ducks and smirks. "Damn, baby, that wasn't even the kinky part."_

_She turns around to continue undressing but is foiled when he pulls her on top of him and kisses her. The kissing turns heated and soon his hand is under her skirt and he is sucking on his particular spot on her neck. Her bra is just about to go join the rest of the pile when he suddenly stops. _

"_What time is it?"_

_She whines in protest. "I don't know." She attempts to push him down to where she wants him to go but he cranes his head to look at the bright numbers on the alarm clock._

_He bolts upright so fast, she does a faceplant on the bed. "Shit. Baby, I'mma need you to hold that thought."_

_To say she's blindsided is an understatement. "Um, I'm sorry…what?"_

_Puck has gotten up and is now running around, pulling out jeans and socks from drawers. "The guys and I have a gig at the Blind Lemon. Last minute and everything so I'm gonna be home really late. So, um…raincheck?" he shoots her a pleading look._

"_Do you really have to go?" she practically whines. She knows he'll be making fun of her later but right now, she just wants her husband._

_He hesitates a second. "Damn. I really do, baby."_

_She couldn't believe it. "Fine. I hope the memory of leaving your sexually-frustrated wife home alone will be sufficient punishment for you," she gripes._

_He watches her lips as they pout and her pink tongue darts out to wet them quickly, and he groans before heading in for a (cold) shower. "You have no idea."_

_Some time later, while he's getting ready for his gig (and after a quick shower that she complained wasn't even a real one, it was so fast), he notices the expression on her face as she watches him in the mirror. "Something wrong, B?"_

_She shakes her head but he knows what the furrow on her brow means. At his raised eyebrow, she gives in. "It's nothing. I was just thinking...I mean, you can be so much more than just another member of a cover band, Noah. You're a gifted musician and an amazing songwriter. As your wife, I may not be objective but as a fellow artist… you're good. You're very, very good." She sighs. "I just think your talent is wasted here."_

"_Some people could say the same thing about you, you know."_

"_Noah! That's—"_

"_True and you know it. You think I don't know that you're throwing yourself away teaching tone-deaf rich kids?" He scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look, I get it, okay? And it's not like what you're saying isn't true either. But this isn't going to be forever."_

"_I know, I know."_

"_Do you? Because sometimes I think you forget that." He sits beside her on their bed and cups her face gently. "I know I don't have to do this but tonight is important. It's gonna be all-Puckerman night. No lame-ass covers, just me and my kick-ass songs. It's the Blind Lemon – there's always some agent watching, right? This could be the start for us, baby."_

"_Noah..." Her eyes are shining and he can't help but kiss her._

"_We're gonna get out of here, B. You, me and the squirt," he murmurs into her lips._

"_I believe you." She smiles and kisses him one more time. Shouldering his guitar case, he waves goodbye and with a hasty "Love you!", is out the door and into the rain._

OOO

_She putters around after he leaves, fixing herself a light dinner and putting into rights anything that her husband and child had touched. The house is tiny, an old single storey sheltered by an aging elm tree whose branches could be heard banging against the windows. It is tiny and old and far too much money to maintain but it is home. So she puts away toys, straightens up the bedroom and cleans the bathroom after the hurricane that is Caroline at bath time. By the time she goes to bed, the rain has died down and it doesn't take long before she falls into a deep, exhausted slumber._

_A fact about Rachel very few people knew: not many things (_Ain't Nothing' Gonna Break My Stride_, Noah's voice, Caroline's cry) could wake her up from her heavy sleep. Tonight, she doesn't rouse because of the creaking of the wood against the gusting wind. She doesn't stir at the clap of thunder in the distance. She doesn't wake at the strike of lightning. _

_What eventually wakes her is the sound of the fire alarm and the distant scream of sirens. She remembers thinking that what happened next was just a dream._

_She remembers coming to coughing, her eyes tearing. _

_She remembers the smoke curling under the door and the haze in the air. _

_She remembers stumbling outside into the hallway, the extreme heat clouding her senses, and trying to get to her daughter. _

_She remembers the heat of her door burning into her palm as she tries to wrench it open ._

_She remembers getting in and marveling at how quiet the room was, how peaceful Caroline looked in her crib, like she was just sleeping._

_She remembers grabbing her baby and attempting to stay conscious in the heat. And then blackness and she remembers no more._

_She wakes on a stretcher, her arms empty of child. The doors of the ambulance frame the sight of their home in flames. It is still dark and the bright tongues of fire are silhouetted against the night sky. _

_Something touches her shoulder and she turns bleary eyes to a paramedic. The man says something and it takes her brain a moment to process it. _

_Her hands. _

_She looks down at them; scarred and burnt from the doorknob of Caroline's room. Sluggishly, she makes out that he wants to put an oxygen mask over her face. Her chest aches and her throat is raw but she doesn't care about anything except finding out where her daughter is. She tries to get up but the man is restraining her. She wants to argue, to scream, where is Caroline, she needs her husband, what is going on, but for the first time in her life, her voice fails her. She can do nothing but croak out meaningless syllables and glare at this man who is just trying to help her._

_That's when she notices the frenetic activity of the paramedics in the other ambulance. _

_A truck careens into the lawn and barely misses the mailbox before it disgorges her husband, his eyes wide and panic-stricken. The next moment, he is shouting and gesturing and pointing before he sees her. He pushes through the crowd, manhandling quite a few people, and makes his way towards the ambulance. Soon, he has an arm around her, all but crushing her, and crying his relief into her smoky hair. Numbly, she figures it must be after midnight if his gig is done. Noah is asking all sorts of questions and fussing over her but he stops when another paramedic makes his way towards them The man is talking, he's saying something important she knows. She can feel time slow down and she is vaguely aware of __Noah crumpling to the ground, back hitting the side of the ambulance hard. Something or someone is restraining her, the paramedic maybe. He is still talking but __she doesn't pay him any mind._

_She is still trying to get a glimpse, a sign, anything, of what is happening to her daughter._

_When she at last gets a look, she sees nothing but white._

_Nothing but a pristine white sheet covering something small._

_She can't hear anything but a hopeless, agonized screaming in the distance, like the cry of a dying animal as its heart is being ripped out. It takes a while before she realizes that it is coming out of her own mouth._

OOO

She is staring into the distance, going back to that night when she watched her life burn before her eyes. Her throat is parched and her voice is detached. "I was admitted for a few days because of smoke inhalation. I couldn't understand how I survived but she didn't. The doctor said something about how children were more susceptible to inhalational injuries and maybe if she had been gotten to in time…and all I could think was that I was too late."

She faces Quinn, eyes dry and anguished. "I killed my baby girl."

Quinn has been biting back her tears the whole time Rachel was talking but at the misery she sees in her eyes, she begins to cry. Still, Rachel is the one comforting her, her own face calm and composed as she pats her back gently. Quinn feels a little embarrassed that she is the one breaking down when it should be the other way around. Then she hears a choked off whimper.

She raises her head and watches as Rachel's face and entire being crumble. Her body shakes violently and she collapses against Quinn in sobs, the helpless and lonely sobs of a woman who had stored her guilt and grief inside for years and was only now finally letting it go.

The sight of this once-strong and composed woman now with her shoulders shaking and her heart shattering all over again pierces Quinn. This is what broke Rachel Berry. Her own heart is breaking and for the first time in a long time, she feels so utterly useless.

So Quinn does the only thing she can do – she wraps her arms around her friend and holds on for dear life.

* * *

**AN: **...well, I'm guessing I'll be hearing all about what you thought about this in the reviews.

And to clarify, Rachel and Puck got married the summer after graduation. They had Caroline around 8 months later; she dies a little after her 2nd birthday. 4 to 6 months after she dies, Rachel leaves for New York. She's been in NY for 2 years. So Rachel and Puck have been married for nearly 5 years. Providing that they both graduated at the age of 18, it makes them both 22-23 years old. The other gleeks have graduated by this time. Most of the dates are approximated and I'm not going to be counting each and every day, so if someone actually goes through the trouble of proving my calculations wrong, give me the info and I'll be happy to correct them. Otherwise, any inexact dates will be attributed to artistic license :)


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **Wow, 106 reviews. _**One hundred and six**_. I can't even…just, wow.

My muse has been a bitch these last two weeks so apologies for the long wait. I hope this chapter is worth it, although I'm not entirely satisfied with how it turned out. Again, thanks for all the wonderful reviews and the alerts/favorites. I can't respond to each and every one so instead, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I'll be laptop-less for one whole week so any expect another long wait for the next chapter. As always, hope you guys enjoy.

* * *

4:12 am.

It's been 17 minutes since she last checked the time and the red numerals are still telling her the exact same thing: _You should be sleeping._

Nothing has worked. Not counting sheep, drinking warm soy milk (oddly disgusting, so she won't be trying that trick anytime soon), meditating or aromatherapy with lavender essential oil. This day has exhausted her but she can't seem to quiet her brain long enough to catch some sleep.

Stifling a groan of frustration, she drums her fingers against the bedspread and glares at the outline of the Siamese cat deep in contented repose atop the dresser. Directing her frustrations on a (somewhat) innocent house pet doesn't detract from the fact that she is once again spending an entire sleepless night staring at a ceiling. Despite the rather obvious difference in décor (personally, she was never into Laura Ashley sheets), this feels a lot like déjà vu. The creaking of the house as it expands and contracts, the tap-tap-tapping of the branches against her window, the damning silence of the empty spaces – it is too much, much too much like before.

And like before, there are so many reasons keeping her from sleep, all of them involving one man.

_This wasn't how imagined my life would turn out, you know?_

_That's what I am, right? A fuckin' Lima loser you just happen to be stuck with._

_You didn't give a fuck. You never did._

_I killed my baby girl._

_It's that easy, huh? Just…forget about all about your stupid mistake. Forget about me…forget about her._

_We named her Caroline Anne._

_How's that working for you, Berry? Being a cold-hearted bitch?_

_At the end of the day, you left me first._

_You talked about love and till death do you part like it meant something._

She had to hand it to him. He was still the only one who knew exactly which buttons to push. Hell, he was the only one who even knew what those fucking buttons were. Even now, hours later, years delayed, his words make her eyes burn and her chest constrict. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hands and takes deep calming breaths through her nose.

Rachel looks over again (4:14 this time) and groans.

She has been tossing and turning for what seems like forever, trying to get comfortable in her own skin. She still doesn't know how long she spent sobbing in Quinn's arms but thinking about it now makes her cringe. For a woman who has been so strong, so in control for so long, it is disconcerting, this helplessness she feels.

She feels…naked, for lack of a better term.

Dinnertime was spent in uncomfortable silence, with her eyes focused on her plate, chewing quickly and actively avoiding the Fabrays' eyes. She couldn't take seeing any pity in their eyes and honestly, she'd rather not break down again over spaghetti and salad.

With one last frustrated thump to her pillow, she finally gives up chasing slumber. Without really thinking, she sits up, swings her feet around and feels around for her slippers. Then it is her sneakers and coat over the sweatpants and oversized tee she wore to bed. It's amazing how quickly sneaking out of a house comes so naturally again. Before long, the darkened front yard greets her, no hint of blush on the eastern sky to herald the approaching sunrise. Bouncing lightly on her heels, she breathes in the cool spring air and picks up a small stone from the yard and tosses it once, twice in the air. It's still maybe 2 hours or so before the sun actually comes out. Definitely enough time for her to get where she's going.

Her feet have their own sense of direction, even if she hasn't walked the route in a long time. She might have put Lima out of her mind, said mind perpetually taking her elsewhere, but the rest of her knew what she couldn't keep running away from. She passes houses and apartment buildings, its occupants still sleeping soundly in their beds, cuts through a park and a softball field and skirts the edge of the small man-made lake where they have fireworks every 4th of July. And after another 30 minutes of walking, her mind blissfully blank the entire time, she finally reaches her destination. A slight breeze ruffles her heavy fringe and the wetness of the grass seeps through the fabric of her pants as she kneels down.

"Hi, baby, it's your mom."

She makes herself comfortable in front of the granite tombstone, its epitaph simply stating "Caroline Anne Puckerman" and the dates of her birth and death. The only other thing engraved on the stone is the outline of an 8-pointed star. Her heart expands a little when she sees the familiar shape.

"North Star," she presses her palm against it. A rustle of leaves from the sheltering tree is the only other sound in the cemetery when she whispers into the wind. "My little North Star."

For once, the rest of her words take their time in coming. She falters because what else is she supposed to say, can she say? _I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I haven't been around. I'm sorry I wasn't enough. I'm sorry I tried to forget you. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry._

There is tightness in her chest that doesn't go away as she stares at her daughter's grave and she is transported back to a June day long ago.

OOO

_Standing under the trees, she wonders idly if maybe this was just some huge cosmic joke. But no - the bottomless pit that has formed in the general vicinity of her heart tells her this is all too real. The sun is shining so brightly, the birds are singing so sweetly, the sky so vivid a blue and it's as if the whole world is pointing and jeering._

_Look at the woman burying her daughter._

_She never thought anything could hurt like this. Raw, blinding pain that she wanted to tear out with her hands and yet wanted to hold on to because she had nothing left. She grits her teeth against it and focuses on a lone blade of grass perched on the very lip of the grave. Breathe in, breathe out. In and out. In. Out._

_The collar of her simple black dress rubs against the back of her neck and she stops herself just in time from scratching it, preferring to keep her stoic façade. Once again, it is a small affair, the handful of mourners scattered here and there, like black holes in the beautiful summer day. She tunes out the sobs of her family and the soft murmurs of Rabbi Schram and stands up straighter, willing herself to be strong. She couldn't cry. She can't cry. She _won't.

_Noah stands to her right, sullen and hunched over, his hands clenched so tight, his knuckles were white. An errant waft of air disturbs the single torn black ribbon pinned over his left breast pocket. His face is set but he blinks once and a tear hangs from the edge of his lashes. He blinks again and it's like it was never there._

_As the rabbi finishes his prayer, she follows Noah to throw a handful of dirt into the grave. Her hand trembles slightly but she somehow controls it. _Strong_, she thinks to herself. _Don't show any weakness_. Still, when the time comes to walk back, her hand feels around blindly for him, needing to feel his hand in hers._

_But he isn't there anymore. She can see him walking further and further away, a blot of black against the horizon, and she is left alone._

_They sit shiva at Aviva's home, their own home still in the process of repairs. People say it's lucky that the house survived but she curses the fact that it didn't burn down to the ground. Instead, aside from the nursery and the garage, the rest only sustained minor water and smoke damage and they cannot afford to move. Eventually, they leave Lima and their families and go back to Cincinnati, back to that house. She wants to plead with her husband to leave the house, raze it, do anything except live there again, and she would have…if he would only talk to her._

_As it is, he barely looks at her, only says the barest minimum to her ("Yes", "No", "Okay" are the most of it). They are like two strangers now, merely existing in the same space. She returns to her job and goes in day after day, anesthetized, composed and controlled. Ladies and gentlemen - Rachel Puckerman, playing the role of her life. Then night after night, she waits for him so that she could take comfort in his arms and let go, break down just because she could, because he would understand. _

_He never goes to her. She curls herself up in a fetal position, the tracks of tears she denies shedding drying on her cheeks, and faces the wall instead. She would rather stare at the paint than see the cold, vast emptiness of the bed. Lying there, she listens to the various squeaks and groans of the house before she hears the creak of the floor when her husband finally comes home. She shuts her eyes and feigns sleep when the bedroom door opens slightly. She can feel the weight of his stare before she hears his footsteps retreating to the living room and in the silence, she tries to hold the pieces of her heart together._

_Her life becomes a litany of sleepless nights in a house she had come to hate. It is mornings of waking up to her husband passed out on the couch, sometimes with the reek of alcohol still about him. It is being alone with the ghost of her failure as her only company. It is nightmares of smoke and fire and a little girl who cries out for her mama. Every day is the same old song and dance and soon, 4 months have gone by._

_Then one night, she wakes up to the feel of Noah's lips on her own. He is looking at her with dark eyes, waiting. His hands, in the meantime, roam over her body and she gives in, wanting to feel something, anything, other than the numbness she lived with every day. She just wants her husband back. So she holds him against her body and prays that he stays. They move together in a dance they had long perfected, each caress a penance, each kiss a broken promise._

_Once he falls asleep, sated and exhausted, she stays awake to watch him and whispers "I miss you" to his skin. Flicking a stray bead of sweat from his forehead, she feels like she finally has hope that they'd get through this._

_Until the next day, when he acts like nothing happened and they go back to before._

_After another 3 weeks, she's had enough. _

_She just wants it all to go away. She wants to forget._

_So she buys a bus ticket to New York and packs a few belongings into Noah's old duffel bag. She leaves no note, stealing away one night while he is out drowning his sorrows. It is her dad that she calls once she gets to Penn Station. She tells him she's fine, she's okay and refuses to answer any of his questions._

_However, she does ask him to tell Noah she is sorry._

_She hopes that would be enough for him._

_In a little corner of her heart, she hopes it's enough to wake up from his stupor. She is waiting for him to follow her to New York, swoop in like a knight in shining armor on a white horse and reclaim her. She wants him to tell her I'm sorry, come back home, I love you._

_She waits for the longest time before she realizes that he's not coming. _

_Finally, she stops waiting._

OOO

Minutes go by and she is still staring at the words on the tombstone. For the first time in a very long time, words have failed her and she can't think of what to say. So she goes back to what she knows.

It starts as a slow humming under her breath and before long, she is singing a song she has forced herself not to think of or listen to in 2 years. Her voice starts to falter by the second verse and dimly, she realizes it is because she is crying. She traces Caroline's name slowly, lingering on the 'C', and practically whispers the last line. "_If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I?"_

The sun has risen by this time, its faint rays casting shadows on her face which is once again wet with tears. Something — a pain, an ache — surges up from deep within her chest and forces itself out in a hitching sob. It hurts but for someone who has been so numbed…it is freedom. The walls of Jericho have fallen.

"I've missed you, babygirl," she finally chokes out.

The world settles around her before she feels that distinct tingle in her skin. Shaking her head in resignation, she checks a sigh. "I'd really appreciate it, Noah, if you would refrain from the insults until later or until I've had some coffee at least," she says, discreetly wiping her eyes.

"I'm not here to fight, Rachel."

She turns around at this and sees him leaning against a tree. He looks like he just tumbled out of bed (and a very troubled sleep) himself. Faint purple is smudged under his eyes and he rubs a hand against the scruff on his jaw as he pushes himself off the tree to sit cross-legged beside her. She wonders why exactly he _is_ there.

She is probably both the first and last person he wanted to see at that moment. Puck notes the reddened eyes and haphazard clothing choices; hell, she looks like how he feels. Almost conversationally, he answers her unspoken question. "I usually come by once in a while, usually when I can't sleep." He gives her a once-over. "Looks like you had the same problem."

She nods imperceptibly. Sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye, she notices the contemplative look on his face and has to brush off the instinct to reach over and smooth away the wrinkle on his forehead like she used to. They just sit there, lost in their own thoughts. His knee bumps against her thigh and for a second, it feels familiar…comfortable even. Eventually, she breaks the quiet.

"When did you—?" and gestures awkwardly towards the tombstone.

"12 months after," he replies; the accompanying _You weren't here _hangs heavily in the air.

"And the star?"

He shrugs. "Figured she'd want something to remind her of her mom, you know?"

"Thank you," she says in a gratified whisper before they both lapse into silence.

Now, he has never been what you would call eloquent (let's say it like it is – he's shit with words) but he needs to get this out. "Look, about yesterday...we both said some things and I…Rachel, I never blamed you."

"Why not? I did."

Was she serious? Before he knows it, his mouth is running away from him. "Huh. I knew you were crazy. Just didn't think you were stupid."

She turns fierce eyes to him and opens her mouth to tell him where to shove it when he cuts her off. "Unless you got some magic powers I don't know about and you got lightning to strike the damn house, it wasn't your fault. It was never your fucking fault. When are you going to get it through your head?"

"If I had gotten to her sooner, she might have survived!" she shoots back.

"You don't know that!" he growls before visibly composing himself. He rubs his hand over his face. "It's a whole lotta what ifs and maybes and you know what? _It wasn't your fault_!"

All of his instincts are telling him to grab her and hold her close, maybe shake some sense into her; instead, he continues. "I _never_ blamed you for what happened. And despite what you think, I don't hate you."

Was _he_ serious? She almost laughs in his face. "You've got a really funny way of showing it then," she says, sarcastic. "What were those last few months then? Just my imagination? Dammit, Noah, I might as well just have been wallpaper to you. I lost my child – _we lost our daughter_ – and you wouldn't even look at me. What was I supposed to think?"

"I needed my husband and he wasn't there." Rachel is mortified to feel angry tears spring to life. "You wanted to know why I left? Well, there's your answer."

The silence is heavy and tense and right now, a part of her heart is urging her to run. But the rest of her wanted – needed – to hear what he had to say. He looks unseeing into the trees before his voice, hoarse and low, startles her. "Every time I looked at you," a pause. "I saw her."

He tries to ignore the hole that has opened up in his gut at the thought of the daughter he failed and goes on. "I kept seeing her and—fuck, I wanted to beat myself up because I couldn't protect her. I couldn't protect _you_. I couldn't fix it. I didn't make the big bucks or have a college degree but while I had you and I had her, everyone else could go to hell. I promised myself I'd take care of my family. The one thing I was supposed to do. Looks like I proved I was a loser at that too, huh?"

She has to close her eyes against the pain swirling around in the depths of his hazel eyes. "I couldn't save her…and I almost lost you, too," he continues. The bitter laugh he lets escape breaks the post-dawn stillness. "Hell, a few months later, I end up losing you anyway."

The last part is said to himself but she hears it anyway. "Why didn't you say something? Anything?"

"Well, why didn't _you_?"

Her eyes snap open. "I didn't think I would need to tell my husband to acknowledge my existence!"

"I'm not a fucking mind reader!" he growls. He hated seeing her like this, hated even more how he was the cause of it. But he couldn't seem to make himself stop. "How the fuck was I supposed to know? You didn't look like you needed me or anyone. Fuck, you never even cried!"

"You just weren't there to see it," she retorts.

They are facing each other now, like combatants in a ring, insults ready and aimed at weak spots they know all too well. Her long lashes stick in wet tags to her cheeks and she is just so angry. Angry at him, angry at herself. They were both just so, so…_stupid_. At that, all the fight goes out of her and she looks at him, at this man whose scars matched her own. Who was just as lost and as hurt as she was. And she realizes she wants to lay her weapon down and _stop_. She clenches her eyes shut and squeezes out her last remaining tears. She just wants to stop hurting.

"Why didn't you just say something, Noah?" she repeats weakly.

He can sense the change in her and just as suddenly, a certain weariness seeps into his bones."I wish I could tell you. I wish I knew. Maybe because I suck at talking about my feelings. Maybe because I was still a fuckin' messed up kid but…god, I don't know anymore," he sighs.

And maybe, for the first time, she actually understands. Right now, it was enough. She silences him with a hand on his arm and again, they just sit there. Her hand has a mind of its own, however, and before long, she is clasping his hand. He does the rest and twines their fingers together.

"I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe that," he says simply. "I know it doesn't make up the shit I put you through but I'm sorry. I should've been there." And she knows he doesn't mean just on that night.

"I'm sorry, too. For everything," she murmurs before looking up at him. "I thought that if I could run far enough, if I could forget, it would get better. It wouldn't hurt so much."

He smirks involuntarily. "Believe me, I tried. Turns out Jack Daniels is a pretty good mind eraser but it can only do so much." A sigh. "I don't think you're supposed to forget, Rach. You can't. If we're lucky, it just becomes a part of us and we learn to kind of…live with it."

They were certainly a matched pair, she thinks – one drank to forget, the other tried to run away from the memories. Just two broken, misfit toys. She doesn't know if he realizes that his thumb is moving hypnotically in circles over her skin. "Is that what you're doing? Living with it?"

He chuckles humorlessly a bit. "That's all I've been doing."

"And here I was thinking that was the easy part," she sighs.

When she turns her big brown eyes to his again, he thinks, _Fuck it,_ and goes with his gut. The feel of his arms around her is (fuck, he's a big walking cliché) like coming home. He really hadn't meant to miss her so much. He breathes in the scent of her hair and realizes something and not for the first time – he doesn't think he can let go.

He startles her with the hug but she relaxes into it. The fact that they got some things off their chests is progress but she feels that their long overdue talk isn't over. Far, _far_ from it. But right now, enveloped in him, with his distinct smell mingling with the tang of the grass beneath them, everything's fine. She ignores the swooping in her stomach, attributing it to hunger. She shifts her position to accommodate the crick in her back and inadvertently nuzzles her nose in his chest.

His shiver? She's choosing to ignore that, too.

"We still need to talk," she mutters.

"I know." He rests his chin on her head. "Come for dinner. Becca will want to see you."

"Okay." She nods decisively and repeats, "Okay."

By the time they are ready to leave, the sun is high in the eastern sky and their legs are sore from sitting so long on the hard ground. She asks him to give her a minute and when he starts walking away, she fishes out the stone from the Fabrays' front yard from her pocket. Pressing a kiss to it, she leaves it on her daughter's tombstone and starts on the long way back home.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **Okay, wow. I didn't think it would take me that long to update but apparently, I'm an overachiever in that aspect. Sorry for the long wait. This chapter was originally the first half of a very, very long chapter that I chose to break up. So to make it up to you guys, I'm going to be posting part two of this tomorrow.

Thank you all so much for so being supportive and patient. Hopefully, the muse won't abandon me anymore. Fingers crossed!

* * *

"You invited her over for dinner? _Are you insane_? Should I be sending out units to your place right now or should I just wait for someone to call about a 'domestic disturbance'?"

"You're the one who said we should _talk_! The least you can do is be supportive."

"I am supportive!" Finn protests. "I'm supportive like Mrs. Nekervis's bra!"

"What the fuck, man?"

"Hey, she's a fine -looking woman!"

Puck groans into his cell. Could someone remind him again why he was friends with this guy? "Do you even listen to the shit that comes out of your mouth, retard?"

"Don't call me that!" He swears, Finn almost sounds like he's pouting.

"What the—did I actually hurt your feelings, Hudson?"

"Whatever, man. You know sometimes, your words…they hurt."

"Christ. Fine. Sorry for calling you 'retard' and upsetting your fragile psyche…Finnessa."

There is an aggravated sigh from Finn before he starts up again. "Look, I don't think you guys should be around anything that can be used as a weapon." An audible gulp. "You're not cooking, are you? No knives or nothing?"

A pause. "I can't believe I'm even having this conversation."

"I just don't want to see either of you getting hurt. Literally and figuratively."

"Big words, Hudson. Didn't know you had it in you," he drawls.

"Shut the fuck up, Puck. You're forgetting I know you. This isn't just dinner."

"It's just dinner." _Fucking liar_.

"Not for you, it isn't."

What? It's not like he wants to feel this way. _He doesn't_. He doesn't want to hope. But that part of him that still misses her smile and her voice and her smell (the part that still loves her, which, let's face it, takes up most of the damn pie chart) can't fucking help himself. And ever since that morning, that weird, god-damned…_hope_ in his chest has only grown. Puck scrubs at his face wearily as Finn continues on his monologue about hell and safety and whatever on the other end of the line. He knows it's crazy to be carrying a torch for this woman so huge, it's made for Lady Liberty. He knows it's crazy to still want it (want _her_) too much.

But you know what?

Fuck that shit. _Fuck. That_.

The fact that she was in his life again was the universe cutting him a break. Screw the reason; she was back and that was enough…for now. He would work on the rest later.

So yeah, you better believe he's going to hope the ever-loving fuck out of the situation.

A mantra of sorts is looping in his head as he parks and exits his truck. _Baby steps, Puckerman_. Tonight would be a start. Well, it would be a start if Hudson would stop yammering in his ear and making him question everything. Finally, he interrupts Finn. "Could you chill, Barney Fife? I'll handle this."

He expects his best friend to come back with something, anything; instead there is a confused silence and a 'Who's Barney Fife?' Puck rolls his eyes as he starts grabbing the bags of takeout from the backseat. "Nevermind."

He doesn't make it very far from his truck before he stops dead in his tracks. On his front lawn is something he never thought he'd see again: the delectable curves of Rachel Berry's jean-clad ass. "Well, well, well, what do you know?" he murmurs, as his eyes trace very familiar territory.

"What?" Finn's voice in his ear brings him back to reality.

"Look, I gotta go. Wifey's here," he says hastily.

"Remember: applying pressure on a flesh wound stops the bleeding!" is the last thing Puck hears before he hangs up.

Rachel is facing away from him and on her knees, bent over his mom's neglected flower bed. The sight brings back beautiful, beautiful memories. Memories a wise man probably wouldn't mess with given the whole 'baby steps' shit he was just spewing. But then again, anyone who called Noah Puckerman a 'wise man' was a fucking retard.

She must have felt the way his eyes practically caressed her behind because her spine visibly stiffens and she whips her head around in a flurry of brown hair and outraged dignity. Without a word, she sweeps her bangs off her face and makes a big show of brushing off the dirt from her jeans. Her cheeks are kind of red and she obviously wants to harangue (fuck, not even 48 hours since he's seen her and he's catching the vocab virus again) him but is just biting her tongue. Instead, she looks at him dead in the eye and quirks one eyebrow, simultaneously daring him to say a word while telling him, _You're still a pig, Noah Puckerman._

He merely quirks an eyebrow back, an entire conversation contained in just a look.

Then, almost instantaneously, her face relaxes and she rolls her eyes. There might even be a hint of a smile as she shakes her head. He grins as he completes the rest of her thought in his head (…_but I think I may have missed you a little._)

He keeps his response to that to himself, opting to just laugh and offer her his free hand. Now the Puckerone MO would have had him haul her up and crash her body against his (let the record show that he really, _really_ wants to) but the voice in his head that whispers _"Baby steps"_ sounds an awful lot like Berry. Instead, he exercises restraint (what? He has it) and brings her gently, almost reverently to her feet. He then turns to open the door and misses the renewed blush on her cheeks.

The aroma of the food wafting from inside the paper bag in his hands is making his stomach rumble. "Hope you're in the mood for Italian," he says as he ushers her inside. He suddenly stops in the middle of the kitchen when something occurs to him. "You haven't gone back to being a vegan, have you?

Her clear, bell-like laugh rings out. "Please. You and your carnivorous tendencies took care of that a long time ago."

"Thank fuck. I thought you went back to the Dark Side."

She snorts at this as she goes about taking plastic containers full of food out of bags, flitting around the kitchen like a manic hummingbird for plates, bowls and utensils, and generally being her normal self. Puck looks on, amused, at the whirlwind that was the woman he married. It's actually kind of nice that she still knows the way around this kitchen. Like she never left in the first place.

"Hey, let me do that. Sit down. I was the one who invited you over."

"Oh but you did all the work, the least I could do is—"

She was being polite and for some reason, he hated it. "Seriously, Rach, sit the fuck down. If this were any other time, you'd be yelling at me for 'catering to oppressive gender stereotypes' or something like that. Anyway, it's not like I cooked."

Surprisingly, she smirks and he can't deny that it's still as hot as it was the first time he saw it. "That is true. Wise choice, by the way, not wanting the deaths of two poor innocent women on your conscience."

Rachel stands there, still with that adorable (_hot_) little smirk on her face and one hand on her hip, like a challenge. Oh, it was _on. _His feet move of their own accord and he ends up backing her up against the counter. Her eyes have widened slightly but she stands her ground, hand still clutching his mother's chipped serving platter.

"You wanna say that to my face, Berry?" Even he is surprised with how husky his voice sounds.

"I thought I already did, _Puck_," she whispers.

He inches closer and he can tell that her breathing has sped up, which would be hella amusing if he weren't suffering from the same condition himself. It's almost making him dizzy, the nearness of her, and he has to stop himself from closing his eyes because he just wants to drink the sight of her in. His brain is busy cataloguing little details that he thought he'd forgotten - that little mole on her left cheek, the little hairs around her hairline that catch the light, the quick jump of her pulse at her throat. He leans forward a little more, forcing her to tilt her head back to look at him and the look in her eyes makes him want to do a lot of things. Things that didn't fall under 'baby steps'. It's almost too much because her eyes are locked on his and she smells like vanilla and he can feel the heat of her body through her shirt and his and he wants to beat himself over the head for getting so close to her but not being able to touch her. Not the way he wants to. Not yet.

Very carefully, his arms come around her, his hands move nearer…and he plucks the platter from her suddenly nerveless fingers before she can drop it. He almost laughs at the indignant look on her face and the flush making its way up from her neck. Emphasis on the 'almost' because he has to take a deep, steadying breath himself as he backs away quickly. She ducks her head, her face pink, and he can practically see the waves of embarrassment she's giving off, which is fucked up because what did she have to be embarrassed for? Didn't she realize that he had to put some distance between them or he'd end up doing something she'd regret but he'd be totally up (pun very much intended) for?

Tension still redolent in the air, he takes up where she left off like nothing happened, setting the table and bringing out the food. In the background, she clears her throat self-consciously. "So, um, Becca's home?"

Shit. Becca. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about her." He turns around to face her and catches the tail end of her eye roll. Giving her a shrug in return, he makes his way to the foot of the stairs and braces himself.

"BECCA! GET YOUR FUCKIN' ASS DOWN HERE NOW!"

The look he gets when he comes back to the kitchen is pure horrified Rachel. "_That's _how you call your little sister to dinner?" she asks, disbelieving.

"She's fourteen, not eight. She's heard worse things in school." And he's not even joking.

"I'm sure," she responds drily.

A clatter of footsteps interrupts them. "What-the-fuck-ever, No-No. I hope you came home with some decent food this time and not your usual garbage," a bored, insouciant voice states. The doorway frames a tall fourteen year-old in dark jeans and a gray tank. Her straight black hair flows in rivers over her shoulders and dark liner rings the signature Puckerman eyes. Eyes that widen when they first catch sight of Rachel. Her face twists into a sneer to rival Puck at his best.

"Oh, joy. Look who the cat dragged in."

* * *

If Becca Puckerman wasn't so furious, she would actually get a kick out of the sheer madness that was this 'family dinner'. Her so-called sister-in-law, the same one that had walked out on her brother and stomped on his black, shriveled but still beating heart, was seated right in front of her. Yeah, that was her – the bitch munching on her chicken, drinking her wine and trying to engage the table in some conversation. She refuses to give Rachel that satisfaction. If she wants more than monosyllabic grunting from her, she'd have to earn it. Her brother, the Puckmeister himself (fuck, she loves him but he seriously needed to stop giving himself lame nicknames), is a little confused but then again, he's also fucking starving so the char-broiled chicken breasts and lasagna has (understandably) his full attention. So, let's recap: grunting, glaring and some food-induced groans.

Yeah, awkward did not begin to cover it.

She wonders what the hell she's doing here as she watches the two of them dance around each other. It's making her want to puke on her pasta. Gawd, it's like the woman comes back and suddenly everything's okay again. Whatever. Rachel might have won over her brother but she'll find out soon enough that _this _Puckerman doesn't forget that easily. If Becca had to spend the rest of the night trying to explode Rachel with her glare, she'd fucking do it.

It's not like she's stupid. Just because she can't drive yet doesn't make her any less intelligent than the supposed adults around her. Her mom and her brother might not have sat her down and told her but she knows what happened. She can figure out why Rachel left. Doesn't change the fact that she still hates her for it. And she kind of hates her brother for it, too. The way she sees it they're the stupid ones in this equation.

As she twirls her fettuccine around her fork, she can't help but sneak little glances at the woman seated directly in front of her. She also can't help the questions in her head – _where has she been? Why is she back? Did she miss her? Would she be proud of her? _Becca has to shake her head slightly. Her brain is such a fucking traitor.

After another 10 minutes of a completely uncomfortable silence, interrupted occasionally by Puck asking any of them to pass the bread, apparently Rachel has finally had enough.

"Becs—"

There is a clang as her fork falls from her hand. "Don't," she says at last, her voice clipped. She turns fierce eyes turn to the woman in front of her. "My name is Rebecca. Only my friends and _my family_ get to call me that."

"Becca," Puck says warningly.

She goes on, regardless of what her brother said. "You have a lot of nerve waltzing back here from wherever you disappeared to like nothing happened."

"Becca, lay off," Puck chastises, his tone brooking no argument.

Her jaw, no joke, drops in astonishment. He's defending her? After the shitstorm when she left, he was actually defending her? What parallel universe did she drop into? Her jaw clenches. "Are you serious? You, out of all people—" She can't believe this is coming from her brother. She puts her hands up in a gesture of surrender before standing up so fast, her chair almost falls over.

"I'm out. I think," while looking directly at Rachel, "I suddenly lost my appetite."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **Long and overdue chapter is long…and overdue.

I was very disappointed with the response with my last chapter and I wasn't sure if it was because I waited so long to update that no one really cares about the story anymore, or because the chapter really sucked. I know I promised to have this chapter up the day after the last one but the reaction (or lack of it) to the previous chapter put me in a bit of a funk. Hence me rewriting this one at least three times. Sorry if it isn't up to par with the angstfests that went before but if you didn't like something about the story, please push the nice button at the end and tell me about it. Conversely, if you _did _enjoy it, please let me know. Think of me as a fanfic Tinkerbell; I need reviews to live ;)

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my fab friend _**maggiequeen**_, who is, quite honestly, one of the best cheerleaders in the world, aside from being an awesome writer. You rock, hun!

* * *

In stunned silence, the two left at the table hear the echoed clomping of feet overhead and the almighty slam of Becca's door. Rachel's breath whooshes out. _It's just normal teenage angst_, she tells herself. But picturing the expression on Becca's face as she stormed out (a tiny part of her is proud of the girl for her dramatic exit), she's not so sure.

Puck looks at her. "Well, that went well," he deadpans. She just gives him a look and, without a word, leaves him to his dinner and the rest of her rigatoni primavera.

Making her way upstairs, she wonders who this sullen teen is. Was this the same 10 year-old girl who danced at her wedding? Who had joyfully declared, once the news of her engagement to Noah came out, that she was so happy she finally had a sister? Who snuggled up against her on the couch while they watched 'Wizard of Oz'?

Rachel makes her way upstairs quickly but hesitates in front of the door plastered with various stickers and a sign saying "Becca's Room: KEEP OUT!" in bold, multicolored script. It takes several quick raps on the wood before she hears Becca padding to the door. Now, previous research (namely, Lifetime movies and dramatic features) has led her to expect a shouting match through the closed door. Which is why she doesn't expect the door to open with a flourish and the cold stare of one Rebecca Puckerman.

"What do you want?" the girl in question says, her arms crossed.

"Bec—Rebecca, I want to talk to you."

She gives a deceptively careless shrug. "So talk." Turning her back on Rachel, she walks to her desk chair and sits down, arms and legs crossed defensively.

Becca's face is stony and carefully wiped clean of any expression but Rachel can feel the hostile way her eyes bore into her. _Okay, genius, you got in; now what?_ She wishes there was a script she could follow or a monologue she could deliver that would make everything alright. Except, of course, there isn't and now Becca is looking at her in a way that says, _Well? I'm waiting. _Dammit. What _does_ one say to an angry teenager?

In her panicked state, Rachel hunts around the room for the words that she doesn't seem to have and her gaze focuses on the numerous trophies lining the shelves. Trophies for soccer, spelling bees and dance glint dully from their places, a testament to the talented, well-rounded girl (_young woman, _the voice in her head insists) in front of her. No slushies or bullying or, on the other end of the spectrum, juvenile delinquency for this Puckerman.

She ends up in front of one such shelf, trailing her finger along the edges of a photo of Becca in a perfect arabesque. The photographer (Aviva? Noah?) captured the emotion on her face and the determination in the lines of her body. Rachel can't help the swelling of pride within her chest.

"Don't," Becca repeats firmly, her hand reaching out to snatch the frame away, breaking the spell.

Rachel bites back her response to this and faces her calmly. She gets why the girl is angry. After all, she was the woman who had hurt her brother, who had up and left him.

"Look, Becca," she begins, hesitant. "I know you're angry for what happened and you are perfectly within your rights to feel that way. He is your brother and it's only natural for you to form this reaction towards someone who you perceive hurt him. I know I did, Becca, and I'm so sorry for that, for leaving him. It wasn't the wisest course of action but you're older now and you have to realize that there are two sides to every story and you only know half of it. I'm sorry I had to do what I did but it isn't your problem; it's mine and Noah's."

For a brief moment, Becca appears for all the world like she's 14 going on 30. She looks back at Rachel with an unfathomable expression in her hazel eyes and gestures with the picture still in her hand.

"This was two summers ago. My first solo piece. Do you know the first thing I wanted to do when my contemporary ballet teacher told me I had a solo?" she looks at Rachel searchingly. "I wanted to tell you. Not my mom or my brother. _You_. But of course, I couldn't do that, right? You weren't here. You weren't here for my bat mitzvah either, or my first day in high school or…" She suddenly lets out a chuckle. "Do you know how many times I sat around like a fucking idiot wanting to call you or email you or something? It pissed me off. It _still_ pisses me off."

Rachel gets a sick feeling in her stomach and she remembers a different conversation during a different time:

"_I'm nervous. What if I mess up?"_

"_You're not going to mess up. You, Rebecca Marie Puckerman, are going to be amazing."_

"_Mom won't be there because she's got work but you're going to be there, right?"_

"_I wouldn't miss it for the world."_

"_You promise?"_

"_I promise, Becca."_

She sits down on her bed and fixes her gaze on Rachel, who is just standing there, stunned. Eyes focused on long fingers picking at a hole in the orange and pink bedspread, Becca continues along conversationally. "For the longest time, I thought you were going to come back. That it was all just a big mistake and you would come home and you and Noah would make up and everything would go back to normal. But obviously that didn't happen. I had to watch while everything fell apart." She shakes her head. "And guess who was left behind to pick up the pieces?"

Technicolor understanding washes over her and Rachel's face softens. Before she can say anything, Becca starts talking again, her tone harder. "The problem with you is you think this is just about the two of you. It's not." She rubs furiously at red eyes. "He wasn't the only one you abandoned."

Rachel stands by helplessly for a few seconds before sitting beside her and tentatively wrapping an arm around Becca's shoulders. "Becca," she says again, the shock of the past few minutes reducing her brain's ability to form any other words except for the name of the girl beside her.

"Whatever. It's not like you're really my sister anyway," the teenager scoffs, trying vainly to shrug Rachel's arm off. Rachel, however, doesn't let her.

"You _are_ my sister, Becca. Whatever happens, that doesn't change," she whispers. "I know that I've made such a mess out of things but I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"_You ran away!_ How does that not hurt anyone?"

"You don't know what it was like, those last few months." She screws her eyes tight against the rapid influx of tears. "It was hell. And I know what I did was stupid and selfish and cowardly but at that time, I felt like I didn't have a choice."

Becca stares ahead, her face still hard and Rachel hates the fact that she helped make her this way. She doesn't know what else to do except hold on tighter and simply say, "I'm sorry, Becs. I'm so, so sorry."

There is silence in the room and she can feel the thrum of her own pulse echoing in her ears. Minutes pass and she almost wants to give up the ghost. But she can't. She won't. This girl was (is) her family. Then blessedly, two arms slowly and grudgingly loop around her waist and before Rachel knows it, she feels the welcome pressure of a hug. Then a whisper so soft, she almost doesn't hear it. "I missed you."

Relief, sweet and swift, washes over her. "I missed you, too." She rests her head against the younger girl's hair. They stay like that for a while and to Rachel, it feels a lot like making up for lost time.

Before long, Becca interrupts the silence with a giggle. "I can't believe we're acting like a bunch of fucking girls," she says, awkwardly trying to wipe off tears while still holding on to Rachel with both arms.

"Probably because we are," Rachel responds drily. She laughs when something occurs to her. "I swear, you're like…mini-Puck. I blame myself."

"Blame him. He's the one who curses like it's his fucking job," she mutters.

After this profound and telling statement, they look at each other for a moment before bursting into uncontrollable laughter at Puck's expense. In the midst of her giggles, Rachel's mind wanders again to her husband and to the little 'moment' they shared in the kitchen. The mere thought of those few seconds, when it felt like the fate of the entire world revolved around the possibility of a kiss, scares her. Yes, she will admit it – she is afraid. Afraid of the emotions he still managed to stir in her. Afraid of what would happen if (_once_) she allows those feelings to take hold of her.

She doesn't notice Becca watching her and the play of expressions on her face. She shifts slightly and releases Rachel. "Go," and she lifts her shoulder towards the door. At Rachel's look, she explains. "There's someone you want to talk to and it definitely isn't me."

Still, she feels she owes Becca some kind of explanation. "He and I…we need to figure some things out," she says haltingly.

"Just—just don't hurt him again."

"I'm not trying to."

Becca's face hardens for a second. "You weren't trying the first time." At Rachel's quick breath of surprise, she backtracks, "Sorry, that just came out..."

"No, it's okay." She gives Becca a smile to let her know that everything's fine and one last squeeze before she gets up. She is at the doorway when Becca's voice stops her.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Why'd you come back?"

She hesitates. Somehow, she doesn't think the reason that comes to mind (_I came back to get a divorce from your brother so I can potentially marry another man_) is the right answer, so she lies and goes for a safer choice: "I don't know."

Becca, for her part, merely nods as if she understands everything.

And as Rachel leaves, she can't help but think that somehow, neither of the two choices is the real answer.

* * *

"Noah!"

"Down here!"

After what felt like hours fixing her ruined makeup in the upstairs bathroom (_Waterproof_ mascara? Really? Try again, L'Oreal), she went around the house looking for Noah. He wasn't in the dining room, kitchen or living room. She had even taken a quick peek into his old room and the garage but there was no sign of a Puckerman anywhere. It was only when she finally gave in to his old standby of ignoring inside voices and shouting like a heathen did she find him.

"What in the world are you doing down here?" she grouses as she clatters down the old wooden steps to the basement.

"Come and see."

She is about to retort that she had seen enough of their old basement to haunt her to the end of her days, thank you very much, before the words die a quick death on her lips once she steps into the room. What used to be a shrine to horrible design, unfortunate color choices and teenage ennui had been transformed.

She definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Where there used to be mustard yellow shag carpeting, there are shiny hardwood floors. Pale green walls and old family pictures have given way to dark blue paint and framed album covers. In an area that used to be storage central for Aviva's barely-used exercise equipment and various tchotchkes, there is now a huge wooden recording desk with a professional soundboard, audio mixers, a computer, studio monitors and other equipment she didn't know the names of. There are headphones, racks of effects processors, amplifiers, preamps, recorders and tuners, and keyboards. Overhead lighting bathes the now spacious space in a warm yellow glow.

"Noah," she whispers, awed. "This is like—"

"A musician's wet dream?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, not in those exact terms, but you know what I mean." Her eyes flit all over the room, cataloguing each new treasure, never knowing where to rest. "How did you— when did you…I can't believe you did this!"

He immediately bristles. "What? You thought I was going to be a grease monkey forever?" he says with a sneer.

"Noah, you know that's not what I meant," a note of censure in her voice.

He tilts his head back and sighs. "Sorry. Force of habit," he mumbles, the way he rubs the back of his neck betraying his discomfiture.

She knows. It had always been his Achilles heel, two little words strung together, a petty insult from a petty teenager (_Lima loser_, she can almost hear Quinn's voice whisper). She understands what it's like to be buried under the weight of other people's expectations, whether they were high or low. Most of all, she remembers the look in his eyes at the words she let loose in her fury yesterday, words that were designed hurt him in a way she knew intimately. She swallows the apology she so wants to give and instead moves silently around the room, paying him the ultimate compliment as she marvels at all the changes he wrought. She smiles wistfully as she spies a familiar object on a stand beside the desk – his most prized possession, his grandfather's old Martin. Oh, she remembers that guitar quite well.

"_It's a lovely instrument, Noah."_

"_Lovely? Fuck, B, what's with you and that word? This isn't _lovely_. It's a fucking work of art."_

"_Huh. For the sake of argument, if someone made you choose between that guitar and me, what would your answer be?"_

"…_You. Of course, I'd choose you, babe."_

"_You hesitated!"_

"_It was a momentary pause!" _

She hides her chuckle with a cough and moves on to what is probably the biggest change – a soundproof room. Years before, all that area had held was a ratty old brown couch and Noah's old entertainment system (and she uses the term loosely). Now there is a wall separating it from the rest of the studio. She can't resist peeking through the small window above the desk into the enclosed room. Gray studio foam covers the walls and simple gray carpeting, the floor. There are microphone and music stands, a drum set and amps. And guitars. Guitars _everywhere_ – on the walls and on stands.

All Puck is doing is leaning casually against the wall. He watches her activities with the smuggest expression on his face before she turns to him.

"Okay, I give up. How did you end up with a professional quality recording studio in your basement?" she asks. "The last time I saw this place, it had a wagon-wheel coffee table and that awful sofa."

"Loved that sofa."

"I know." She smirks. "There were actual imprints of your ass and Finn's on it."

There is a bark of laughter from him and at this, the room feels lighter. "It's a long story," he stalls as he plops down in the swivel chair and faces her. Almost immediately, his long tan fingers drift to the soundboard, unconsciously fiddling with the knobs and the sliders. She studies him from beneath her lashes and notes the ease in the way he sits behind the huge desk. _He belongs there_, she realizes suddenly. If she didn't want to hear the story before, she certainly wanted to now.

"Tell me," she says softly, and makes herself comfortable on the other chair.

So he does. He tells her about being fired from his job for showing up to work drunk and about getting kicked out of the band for missing gigs and generally being an asshole ("Which really shouldn't bother me but come on, Rach, I was kicked out of a band called _Gary and the Groovies._ Fuck, if that shit ever got out…"). It takes a while but he picks himself up and starts working part-time as a guitar teacher. A guy named Joe Ballard, the father of one of his students worked in a radio station in Cincinnati and after hearing him play, helped him get a job as a session guitarist.

In the middle of this, Puck doesn't notice that he has taken his Martin from its stand. It is like he cannot tell a story without settling its familiar weight against him. "Almost every live act that came through Cincy, I played with. Got hired out for a few record companies, too. I did rock, country, pop, reggae, punk, folk… I don't know what else. I think I even did a campaign jingle or two. Basically anyone who needed an extra guitar, I was there. Shit was fucking exhausting, Rach. But it was good work, you know?" The smile on his face as he tells the story fills in the blanks.

"Then what?"

"Then one time, I was working with this band. Bunch of local dudes who wanted to record in the city where they started, garage rock, that sorta thing. They heard me messing around with one of my songs and, well…" He looks at her, the arrogance of the smirk on his face belied by the excitement in his eyes. "They liked it. Hell, they fucking loved it. Said they wanted it for their new album."

He stops and Rachel almost wants to smack him upside the head for pausing at such a critical juncture in the story. "_And?"_

"And I told them I'd let 'em use it if I had some creative control. So I ended up producing the song for the album." A pause. "An album that peaked at no. 20 on the Billboard Top 100." Another pause, as he takes his time drawing out the drama. "With my song as one of their singles," and he points to one of the album covers.

She turns and sees the cover art of the Greenhornes' most recent album. Contrary to popular opinion, she doesn't live and breathe only show tunes. Rachel Berry has always said, _the more you love music, the more music you love. _She has read the reviews, she has listened to the songs; to know that Noah has had a hand in it…it is amazing.

"And all these other ones?" she says, referring to the framed covers on the wall, with strange names like the Never Setting Suns, Koala Fires, Assembly of Dust, Graphite and others, bands she had never even heard of.

"Well, since then, it's all been word of mouth," there is a quick upturn to his lips. "Turns out, I'm pretty good at this producing thing. Those are some other people I've worked with here or up in Cincy." He takes a deep breath, like he can't believe it himself. "Now, Joe's my manager and I'm working on my own project, with my own songs, and I have my own studio and...fuck."

He scrubs a hand through his short hair and laughs. "Whodathunk, huh?"

Rachel's heart feels like it has expanded 50 times since the beginning of their conversation. This is beyond what she could ever have wished for him. She wants to clap her hands and jump up and down like a child and squeeze him and laugh and cry. 'Happy' seems too mundane a word for what she feels; 'unmitigated joy' felt more appropriate. But instead, she smiles and says quite simply: "You did it."

Looking at the big brown eyes in front of him shining in the old Rachel Berry fashion makes him bite his tongue, wanting to tell her that really, it was her. It was all her, the first person who had ever believed in him, back when he was 16 year-old screw-up. Almost unconsciously, his fingers are sliding across the strings, plucking this chord and that, providing his own indistinct soundtrack to this moment. The fact that she is so happy, so proud of what he was able to accomplish…well, it makes him feel like one lucky bastard.

He claps his hands. "Okay, enough talk about me. How's NY been treatin' ya?" At her look, he sighs. "It's not like it didn't happen, B. Might as well talk about it. I wanna know…what's been going on in Rachel Berry's life?"

There is a strange look on her face and she stills for a moment. His brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head lightly and gives him an apologetic smile. "It's just…'B'. It's been a while since anyone's called me that." _You're the only one that calls me that_, the voice in her head adds.

He doesn't comment on it except for a appraising look and a nod, before he continues in his line of questioning. "Come on, your turn in the sharing circle."

"Nothing much to tell." She doesn't look at him while she talks, her tone is deceptively casual. "Mostly, it was waitressing jobs and parts so far off Broadway, it wasn't even in the same zip code. Then I worked as a singer at a jazz club before becoming an understudy in _Wicked_."(She interrupts herself with a delighted 'I was in _Wicked, _Noah!', to which he laughs).

Composing herself, she continues. "I was understudy to Michelle Federer, you know her of course (him with a roll of his eyes, 'Of course'), for 8 months. Then I went on auditions for this revival on Broadway which is when I got cast in Funny Girl."

"What?" is his strangled cry. She has been biting her bottom lip, watching for his reaction and when she takes a peek, she wants to laugh. Honestly, his goggle-eyed look would be ridiculous if it wasn't so adorable.

"I'm Fanny Brice."

"No shit."

"Yes shit." Suddenly, she can't contain her emotions any longer. She tosses her head back to laugh in delight, the light illuminating the gold in her hair. She can't get her head around it. She has had the part for a while, has told her fathers and her friends (_And Connor, you forgot Connor_, says that voice again) but this, right now, there is joy, relief, exhilaration. It feels like the first time, like this is her first starring role ever. Telling him feels different.

It feels like _more_.

"Fuck, B. That's…that's amazing," he breathes out in reverence. "This is like, the first time it's been on Broadway since Streisand, right?"

A teasing, ear-to-ear smile blooms on her face. "Why, Noah Puckerman…I do believe you actually know your musical theater history."

"Please," he scoffs. "All those years of you yapping my ear off about Tonys and Tommys…mind like a trap, baby."

"More like a black hole," she snarks back automatically. He acknowledges her zinger with a mocking two-fingered salute but it doesn't erase the proud look on his face.

This is way more than he could ever have wished for her. To have all her dreams come true and have her do it in spectacular Berry fashion as always, he felt like writing a goddamned song. Hell, he feels like flailing around like, well, Hummel. "Seriously, B, I'm happy for you. Look at you, making Broadway your bitch." She narrows her eyes at him but can't help the giggle that escapes. The smile on her face is so beautiful, he wants to kiss if off.

"Thank you, Noah." She gives a little sigh. "Looks like you and I got everything we've ever wanted."

The hands that were idly fiddling with guitar strings moments before, suddenly still. "Not everything."

It is like everything screeches to a halt. Her smile falters at his sober whisper before it comes back, a little shinier, as the tiny part of her is repeating his words, _not everything_. He raises his head, looks her dead in the eye, and she has to avert her eyes because there is something dangerous in his gaze. _Dangerous for who?,_ the voice in her head pipes in again.

She doesn't answer it and thankfully, he drops his head once again in favor of making his guitar weep softly. What was, mere minutes ago, light and comfortable, is charged with electricity. She finds herself resenting him for changing the rules of the game. They were doing fine, relaxed, joking with each other, laughing. Now it is as if the very air is tainted by memories (like how just inhaling his scent was enough to awaken longing within her or how the brush of his callused fingertips on skin was enough to erase her worries…stop it, Rachel. Stop).

When Rachel Berry puts her mind to something, nothing will sway her. Right now, it is to ignore whatever this is (_Keep telling that to yourself, B_, snarks the voice) and to focus instead on the chords that Noah is playing. She can hear an E sliding into A over and over again, then C# minor, B minor, A, F# minor then A again. Soon, it occurs to her that chords that she thought he was just playing over and over mindlessly actually form a melody. A song she can imagine a stadium full of people swaying and singing along.

"What is that?"

He stops. "What?"

"What are you playing?"

"It's nothing," he replies shortly.

"It doesn't sound like nothing," she persists. "It's one of yours, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer in so many words, except to tilt his head and give her a careless shrug.

"Noah, it's beautiful. Play it for me." She doesn't realize until now how much she has missed hearing him sing. "Please?"

She expects him to protest. He has always been protective of his songs, never wanting anyone to hear them unless he was ready. Of course, this hadn't applied to her. He had played his songs for her before – hundreds, maybe thousands of times before – for no other rhyme or reason but for the fact that music had always been their language of choice. But that was the key word: _before_.She has never had to ask except now.

She should have known that he never could refuse her anything. With a steadying breath, he starts the song from the very beginning. Immediately, she is hypnotized by the dance of his fingers across the strings and the magic he coaxes from them. Whenever she sees him like this – gifted, focused – she thinks back to all those people who had discounted him before, who had refused to see who he really was. And like all those times before, she wonders who were the real 'losers'.

If anything, he doesn't seem to notice the direction her thoughts have gone and she closes her eyes, preferring to let the music wash over her. She tries hard to figure out what it is about the song that is drawing her in. It is simple and beautiful, yes; but not sad. No, sad isn't the right word. _Wistful. _Yes, that's it. Just when she thinks the song is purely instrumental, his husky tenor surprises her.

_Wherever I go  
Whatever I do  
I wonder where I am in my relationship to you_

She had forgotten his voice's effect on her. Suddenly, she finds herself drawing closer, heeding the gravitational pull of the song and the man behind it. She can't tell if this swooping feeling in her gut is her flying or falling.

_Wherever you go  
Wherever you are  
I watch your life play out in pictures from afar_

_Wherever I go  
Whatever I do  
I wonder where I am in my relationship to you  
_

His eyes are closed and with the lyrics he wrote ringing in her head, she questions what he is seeing with his eyes shut. Half of her wants to know what he is trying to tell, _if_ he is trying to tell her anything; the other half…well, the other half just wants to listen to him sing.

_Wherever you go  
Where ever you are  
I watch your pretty life play out in pictures from afar_

He ends the song by vocalizing on the last note and holding it. Once it is over, the silence seems to echo in the space, full of things said and unsaid. He looks slightly uncomfortable. "I mean, it's not finished yet. That's just the chorus and there are a lot of kinks but…yeah," he hastily explains.

"What's it called?" she asks finally, her throat dry.

"Can't tell you." His eyes linger on her. "I don't know how it ends yet."

That is when she looks up and notices that he is far closer than he should be. No matter that she was the one who had pushed her chair closer to his while he was singing. Now she is close enough to see the tiny white scar on his chin when he fell from his bike when he was 4 and the glint of moisture on his lips where he just licked it. She fields an idle question from her subconscious (why is it that men have such long lashes? It's unfair) as they stare at each other silently. Silently, almost stealthily, the distance between them is getting smaller and, if she wanted to be honest with herself, she doesn't really care. She can't really think about much of anything.

All she can think about is his lips.

And, suddenly, the ringing of her phone.

Whatever was there moments ago is gone. She closes her eyes (in resignation or relief, she cannot tell) before picking up and focusing on the voice on the other end of the line. He is just thankful she doesn't hear his hiss of frustration. He busies himself returning his guitar to its proper place and trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind him. When he hears the tell-tale sound of her cell flicking shut, he turns back around and sees her lost in thought. He figures he knows why.

"Your dads are back?"

"Yes," she says shortly. The way he looks at her, with understanding and more than a little bit of desire, makes her want to kiss him even more. She is not supposed to want to kiss him at all. Not anymore. Would it be stating the obvious if she says she's feeling a little lost right now?

Thankfully, he doesn't bring up their little 'moment'. He only nods briskly and gets to his feet. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

* * *

**AN: **Okay, so as some of you might've noticed, I exercised some artistic license here. Puck's "original" song is actually the outro from John Mayer's "In Your Atmosphere", which I'm just totally in love with, so I'm hoping he doesn't mind me using it just this once ;) Also, all the bands mentioned are actual bands based in Cincinnati and surrounding areas. The Greenhornes are this amazing garage rock band from Cincinnati and the album mentioned is actually their new one coming out in October 2010. Again, a little more artistic license there ;)

Next up: a gleek get-together, the return of Satan-a and a little more conversation.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: **Considering this is the longest time between updates, I'm almost proud to say that this is also the longest chapter I've ever written. It feels a little rushed in some parts and not that polished but I hope you guys still like it. Enjoy and please let me know what you think!

* * *

Watching Finn Hudson dance is like watching an elephant fly – technically an impossibility but once you get it off the ground, something strangely beautiful.

Until said elephant crashes into the coleslaw, then it's every man for himself.

"_Motherfucker!"_

It's a hell of a welcome, that's for sure, and he's stuck in the doorway watching all hell break loose. Ms. Pillsbury (Emma, she insists) looks like she's about to keel over, although whether it's from Finn's language or all the vegetable-y goodness over the floor, Puck doesn't know . Quinn is trying to give Finn a hand getting up but the fact that Frankenteen is slipping and sliding in the mess and she keeps giggling over the shredded cabbage in his hair…well, that looks like it's gonna take a while. The others aren't any help at all, if Santana's cackling is anything to go by.

So Will Schuester was having a housewarming and apparently, everyone was invited. From old students and gleeks to his new neighbors. Even a beardless Brad, fresh off the piano bar circuit. Definitely not his scene but he likes Schue, even helped him move a couple of weeks back, and it's free beer. If he's got a feeling that he might see a certain brunette at the shindig too…well, that's another story. He doesn't give a flying fuck about the rest of the party, who are either giving the Jolly Green Giant a wide berth or running off looking for a mop.

He takes a mental picture of Officer Finn Hudson looking like he was attacked by the fresh foods section before he jumps in to help (please, he knows Abrams has evidence of it already; probably even streaming video of it somewhere). Guy's an idiot but he's still his boy. Plus, you know, any more slippage from Boy Wonder and they might end up with a Quinn pancake.

"Thanks, man."

"You can thank me by getting those carrots out of your ear, dude."

Quinn snorts as Finn turns red and does his awkward two-step-side-shuffle going to the bathroom. This, of course, leaves him with the rest of their friends, all of whose laughing stops as soon as Finn disappears.

His smile drops off as soon as he feels their eyes trained on him and he fucking knows what they're dying to ask. He didn't go through 4 years of high school with these people and not know what's coming next. Shit, he didn't want to deal with this. He shouldn't have to deal with this. But the fact that everyone had ringside seats to their Hills-style meltdown, it's pretty much open season on the fuckery that is his life. Just the thought of Santana delving into something that was supposed to be just between him and Rachel makes him angrier than he thought possible.

At the corner of his eye, he can see Tina approaching with a question on her lips so instead of laying into a pregnant chick, he turns right back around and stalks to the drinks table. He needs a fucking drink.

He's muttering to himself about gossipy…_gleeks _when he hears a familiar voice behind him. "You're being all prickly."

"Yeah, well that's what happens when people try to meddle in things they don't know fuck-all about."

"They're not meddling." With a roll of his eyes, he turns around to face Quinn. "They're _not._"

"Really, Fabray? Wanna tell me how many times the whole fucking story has gone around your messed up little game of Telephone?"

Quinn looks at him like she wants to take her hors d'oeuvres and choke him with it. "For your information – _zero_. Yes, they figured that something happened to you and Rachel. Yes, they know that you had a daughter. But that is it. And this is not meddling. Is it impossible to think that _maybe_ we just want to know how you are?"

He takes a moment before responding. "Sorry, I think I missed the part where this was any of your business."

There is a flash of something which looks like guilt across Quinn's face. It comes and goes so quickly, he's not even sure it was actually there. "It's my business because...you're my friend. Rachel is my friend. And I know I haven't said it yet but I am so sorry. For Caroline and Rachel and…" She gives his arm a light squeeze. "No parent should have to bury his child."

"Okay." He chooses to focus on the background hum of the people around them instead of the words she just said. "Okay," he repeats softly and he looks her in the eye. "Thanks, Q."

They stand there for a while, just looking over the crowd of people mingling it up in Schue's new house. It's comfortable in the silence and he's grateful for his friends, he is. But this party was becoming way too heavy for him to not be under the influence of anything. He pretty much glugs his way through his first Bud when Finn finally returns, bowl of chips in hand. Puck has never been happier to see his best friend. And when he sees what said best friend ended up changing into, he's fucking thrilled.

He snorts as he looks at the obscenely tight, wouldn't-you-rather-see-me-on-a-Hooters-girl, old grey McKinley shirt from Schuester's closet. Before he can do what he does best and mock the ever-loving fuck out of his friend, Finn mumbles something unintelligible.

Quinn tries to discretely brush off the potato chip crumbs he ends up sprinkling on her and Puck rolls his eyes. "Speak human, Hudson."

Finn swallows and repeats, "Have you seen Rachel yet?"

With two sets of way too interested eyes watching him, he quirks an eyebrow. "Not yet."

The two give each other this cute, little significant look and really, he does not have time for this shit. So he deflects. "So," he ticks a brow up. "Nice shirt, Finnderella."

Finn's ears turn red and he fidgets as said item of clothing strains over his chest and shoulders. "Mr. Schue and I aren't exactly the same size, you know," he grouches, looking at the amused look on Puck's face.

Casting a sideways glance at the blonde beside him, he smirks. "Well at least one of us is appreciating the view."

Quinn blushes on cue and she whirls around to punch Puck on the arm amidst his guffawing. "Shut up, Puck!" she spits out.

All the while, Finn has this stupid grin on his face. He swears, dude is totally flexing. Puck stops laughing long enough to waggle his eyebrows at his ex-baby mama as he makes his retreat.

He thinks it's about time to find his wife.

* * *

When he hears _Not For The Life of Me_ sung at half volume from the kitchen_, _he knows he's found her. He takes his time watching her from the doorway, her back to him, chopping away at some jicama and cabbage for another batch of coleslaw to make up for the one that Finn swam in.

"How's it hangin', Iron Chef?"

There is a minute pause in the sound of the knife methodically hitting the cutting board but pretty soon, she goes right back to business. "You know, you really should stop ambushing me in kitchens. Particularly when I'm holding a knife."

"But where's the fun in that?" He thinks she smiles at this but since she's still completely focused on what she's doing, he can't be sure. "Hey, you wanna give me a proper greeting here?"

She turns around to give him that soft smile that he loves. "Hello, Noah. Are you enjoying the party?"

He smirks and shrugs. "I'd enjoy it a lot more if he wasn't doing a housewarming barbeque in April."

"It's Mr. Schue," she says nonchalantly. "Same man who thought Michael Bolton would be 'cool' for a high school assembly."

She gives him a wink and he laughs. Girl's got a point. That's when he finally gets a good look at what she's wearing. Looking her up and down, he appreciates the dark blue v-neck sweater, short black skirt, patterned tights and oxfords. She looks like she's back in high school, like the 16 year-old Berry he had first fallen in love with. Of course, adult Rachel's neckline is way below what her teenaged self considered appropriate (she couldn't have worn this shit when he could've made better use of the opportunity?) and her lace-up shoes have 4 inch heels but hey, do you see him complaining about the details?

"Nice threads," he comments. "Gone back in time, have we?"

"Well normally, I've moved on to more sophisticated clothing that is appropriate to my age and career but given the circumstances, I had no choice other than return to a style of dressing that I've already outgrown."

"Meaning?"

"I didn't pack enough clothes and I had to salvage some old stuff from my closet at home."

"Nice," he drawls, bobbing his head in exaggerated approval. She rolls her eyes and punches him on the shoulder, which, really, is more like a love tap.

He leans against the butcher block table. "How're the Daddies Berry?"

"They're…they're fine." A deep exhalation and the eyes she turns to his are a little brighter than usual. "It's amazing what 2 years of practically no communication can do to the father-daughter dynamic."

"They just missed you, that's all. Wished you'd call more often."

She looks surprised. "How would you…?"

"I see them once in a while," he shrugs and Rachel's face is all 'Does Not Compute'_._ He rolls his eyes and snags a piece of carrot. "What? They're cool dudes."

"I've always thought so." She looks at him appraisingly but before she can ask any more nosy questions, he gives her something else to think about.

"So, what are we making?" he asks, snagging the knife from her relaxed hold.

"Wait, you're helping?" She has her big Disney Princess eyes on and he loves that he keeps on surprising her.

"Hey, I'm not a total idiot in the kitchen," he replies. He does this badass trick where he spins the knife in his hand before deftly chopping a head of cabbage to prove his point. Don't judge; he watches the Food Network, okay?

"It's disturbing how well you're handling that knife."

He moves closer and flicks her nose lightly, to her annoyed squeal. "Oh, you know it gets you hot, baby."

"Perv," she laughs, with another slap to his arm. Of course, she isn't denying it.

He chews another piece of carrot. "What are we making?" (He likes that word. _We.)_

"I thought we'd do a Waldorf salad aside from the coleslaw." She starts taking out the apples from the crisper while he watches.

"Sounds...healthy. Schue put you up to this?"

She pauses and looks at him, a little embarrassed. "Well, no. I just kind of offered and he was too busy and he just sort of nodded. I thought he might need a little help because he was looking somewhat rundown considering this is his first house and his first housewarming party, plus Emma obviously has her hands full. Do you think I'm overstepping? I'm overstepping, aren't I? I mean, it's his party—"

Then he does something as natural to him as breathing that he even doesn't realize he's done it until she is silently gaping at him. It was automatic – just three, maybe four, seconds of pressing his lips against hers to stop her rambling. Hell, he can't even call it a kiss at all. But the puff of her startled breath against his skin and the warming of his blood stays with him long after. He licks his lips subtly (she still tasted like strawberries) and realizes something.

He has to do that again.

Meanwhile, her eyes are flitting around all over the place like a fucking hummingbird and she's definitely blushing (he has to stop thinking about how far down that blush goes). He's not a complete dick so he backs away a little.

"So, what the hell is in a Waldorf salad anyway?" he says, pretending the last few seconds didn't happen.

The look that she gives him is mostly grateful colored with something else. "Apples, walnuts, celery, lemon juice, mayo. I think Mr. Schue has everything around here somewhere." He just nods as she moves around the kitchen looking for shit. And don't think he can't tell that she's using vegetables as an excuse to distract herself.

They end up with two separate boards, him slicing celery and her with the apples. It's mostly silent and he watches her while he tries not to slice his thumb off. Her brown hair swings in an arc over her shoulder as she bends over her task and concentrates on chopping her apples into perfectly symmetrical pieces. He smiles to himself. In high school, people knew her as this ambitious little Machiavelli in a short skirt but they never saw the sweet side of her, the one that took care of everyone around her, whether they deserved it or not. Back then, it was with cookies, duets and forgiveness; apparently, now it involved fruity salad.

There is a nice rhythm to them working side by side. She's humming under her breath again and somehow, he finds himself joining with the background vocals to _Fuck You_. When he makes her laugh by singing out "_Ain't that some shit", _it makes his day, no lie.

Of course, he wouldn't be him if he didn't mess with her just a little. He starts by grabbing pieces of apple when she isn't looking then laughing like an asshole when she squeals after she figures out what he's doing. Then it continues when he goes on this whole riff about why they even had to add walnuts when people were gonna pick them out anyway and he gets treated to the whole fucking history of the origins of the Waldorf salad. Then they're bickering about how much mayo to put it the damned thing and there's his trick of slowly edging into her work space accidentally on purpose, which leads to her 'sharp midget elbows' jabbing into his side, which devolves into her taking offense to the phrase 'sharp midget elbows'.

Long story short…he ends up with salad dressing on his head (thrown there from a distance of midget proportions, he wants to add) and her with walnuts down her sweater and her bra. They are both a little breathless and laughing

He figures she's gonna give him a little lecture on 'appropriate kitchen behavior' once she stops giggling. So he's a little surprised when she gives him this smile. "I miss this," she says.

"What? The fighting?"

"No. Well, yes, a little," she smirks. "I've always liked fighting with you. We fight, I tell you when you're being an arrogant son of a bitch and you tell me when I'm being a pain in the ass. It works."

What else he loves? Her constantly surprising him. "You know what I miss?"

"What? And if you're going to say what I know you're going to say, don't say it!"

He winks at her because fuck yeah, her mind totally went to a dirty place. "I miss your crazy."

She rolls her eyes at him. "No, you don't. And that wasn't what you were going to say."

He gives her a look like, _Oh, really? "_Do too! I miss you unleashing all your Berry crazy on my poor, albeit hot, ass."

She shakes her head at him. "I can't believe you just said 'albeit'. Finn's saying 'motherfucker', you're saying 'albeit'." Her grin is pure tease. "I don't know what the world is coming to."

"Shut up, woman," he mutters. She laughs in reply and turns back to the neglected salad. He smirks as he flicks mayo at her one last time, reveling at her outraged gasp.

He thinks he likes this 'baby steps' shit.

* * *

An hour later, she's sitting on an armchair with a plate of Emma Pillsbury-approved finger foods when she hears the familiar bored drawl of Santana Lopez. "God, look at those two," she says, gesturing with her wineglass towards Finn and Quinn. "Disgusting." Rachel would be worried if she didn't see the joking smirk on Santana's face. "D'you think Q would kill me if I put the moves on Finn?"

She takes a sip of her sparkling water before answering. "I think you better remember that the woman's a medical professional. She knows how to make it look like an accident."

Santana snorts. "Good point."

The two people in question were in their own little world, blonde and brunette heads bent together over something, and at the sight, Rachel allows herself an approving smile.

"Seriously, look at them. They're so freaking adorable, I think I puked in my mouth a little."

Hearing Rachel's laugh at this very Santana sentiment, the woman herself smirks. "Whoever said that you can't find the love of your life in high school, right?"

Rachel hears a very familiar bark of laughter and turns her head just in time to see Puck with his head thrown back, talking to an animated Will Schuester. "Some people are just lucky, I guess," she replies distractedly.

Abruptly, she turns back to Santana, hoping that the other woman didn't notice her distraction. Only to find that the former mean girl is instead staring at Finn and Quinn. She looks…heartbroken, for lack of a better term. She knows that look. She spent a year of high school wearing that look and over the same boy.

"Santana…you and Finn…"

She drains her wineglass. "God, I forgot how psychic you are," she says without bite. She sighs resignedly. "When we got back from college, we…had a thing. It was _supposed _to be meaningless. No strings attached – just a whole lotta sex and totally non-serious fun. Then two months ago, Quinn came home, Finn came running and that's when I figured that maybe…"

"It wasn't as meaningless as you thought," Rachel finishes.

"This is some messed up karma right here," comes the terse reply. Santana looks at her and Rachel can't feel anything but sympathy for her old tormentor. "I feel soooo stupid. This is Finn Hudson. _Finn fucking Hudson_. This wasn't supposed to happen." With a groan of frustration, she drops her head on the coffee table with a thud.

Rachel pats her on the back and tries to think of something to say. But instead, she catches Puck's eye from across the room. He sees her looking and smirks but instead of feeling reassured, something hits her. _Puck and Santana. _Despite firmly telling herself she didn't care, ice-cold fear grips her heart. "And you and Noah—?"

Santana's ability to deliver a withering look even when she's practically face down on a table is to be applauded. "Please, bitch. Been there, done that, got tested. Puck and me are just friends." She straightens back up and tidies her hair, fixing Rachel with a knowing look. "That boy might call himself a 'sex shark' but we both know he hasn't even looked at another woman since he was 17. Besides, Santana Lopez is no one's placeholder. "

She really doesn't know what to say to this but she can feel Santana's calculating gaze on her. She's not naïve; she knows a diluted version of what happened between her and Noah has made the rounds. She also knows that there's been an unspoken agreement among the gleeks not to bring it up and for that, she's thankful.

"You know, if anyone else saw you two talking like this, they'd start fearing for their lives." And just like that, the man in question is there. In unspoken agreement, the two women on the couch roll their eyes at each other.

"'S'true," he says defensively, insinuating himself on the couch arm beside Rachel.

Santana raises a well-groomed eyebrow. "Well, nobody asked you, Vin Diesel."

Puck tilts his head, acknowledging the point, and crosses his arms (Rachel is trying very, very hard not to stare at the straining biceps right in front of her). Santana merely regards him coolly, a smirk playing about her lips. "Out with it," he asks her gruffly.

Her eyes widen in a parody of innocence. "Out with what?"

He rolls his eyes. "Look, Señorita Loca, I've known you since you had headgear and was flat as a board. You wanna cut the crap here?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. But since you asked…" Santana trails off, a simply evil grin on her face. "This party blows. We need a little…something. Puck, you're coming with me. You too, Berry."

With Santana Lopez dragging them off into who knows what, she gets a tighter grip on the hand currently clutching hers. And if it happened to be that of her husband's…well, that's only because it's there.

* * *

"One, two…ah one, two, three, four!"

Out of nowhere, Puck launches into the opening chords of _Goodbye Kiss_ with his borrowed guitar and soon, Artie joins him. With a smile and a shake of her long hair, Santana starts singing.

_I lost a piece of my mind  
And you can see it on my face  
My heart is burning this time  
But there ain't no fire escape_

_That little part of me that used to be so strong,  
Is stumbling over now that I know you're moving on  
_

Somehow, in true Glee fashion, they've managed to get a workable band together. It has Puck on slide guitar, Artie on rhythm, Mr. Schue on harmonica (who knew that he even played?) and Quinn and Rachel on backing vocals. Tina can't hold a note for too long with the babies pressing on her diaphragm so she does hand claps instead. Finn cobbles together a drum set made of Tupperware and he's having such a ball banging on them with pencils that he doesn't notice all the looks Santana is directing towards him.

_You were never gonna wait for me  
Babe I really hate to say it,  
But I'm gonna say it anyway_

_You, you know you're not the only one  
I'd rather just cut and run  
Than set the blind on yesterday  
So let's just call this what it is  
And give me one more goodbye kiss  
_  
They've taken over the Schuester living room but everyone else doesn't seem to mind. Rachel thinks she can even see the elderly couple from two houses over bopping their heads along. Closing her eyes and focusing on the music, she realizes how much she's missed this. She feels positively…gleeful.

_I thought that you were the only one  
Who could keep my feet on the ground  
I came to an empty room  
And I know you're leaving town_

_That little part of me, that's gone for good  
That was the only thing making me do the things I should  
_  
Santana was really underused as a performer before, she muses. The gritty quality of her voice suits the song perfectly and the emotions she was releasing in the form of music gives Rachel chills, despite the upbeat feel. She catches Puck's eye and he gives her a nod, like he knows perfectly well what she was thinking.

Which, given the two of them, wasn't a complete impossibility.

_Ooh you really, really made it hard on me  
You really, really were a mystery  
You really, really took it out on me baby  
But now I've solved it and I'm sad to say I see_

_That you were never gonna wait for me  
Babe I really hate to say it,  
But I'm gonna say it anyway_

_You, you know you're not the only one  
I'd rather just cut and run  
Than set the blind on yesterday  
So let's just call this what it is  
And give me one more goodbye kiss_

With a last, long melodious croon and some mournful notes from Will, the performance ends to thunderous applause. Emma even puts her fingers in her mouth and lets out an earsplitting whistle. Every member of the reunited Glee Club takes a bow with renewed clapping reserved for Santana. The girl's eyes are shining as she looks at Rachel, winks and does a little Berry-flavored curtsy.

They break up into smaller groups, giggling and triumphant, instruments still in hand. Before long, Will claps to gain everyone's attention.

"We have a special request." He pauses dramatically with a look towards Santana and Quinn. "By popular demand, we have Lima's own – Noah Puckerman!"

Puck looks resigned and he gives his two exes a half-hearted glare, to which they respond to with waves and tinkling laughs. They quiet down by the time he makes his way to the center, head down and focused on his guitar.

"Any requests?" he calls out jokingly.

A shout of "You know what song we want!" comes from the peanut gallery of two.

Another glare gets thrown their way but he starts playing anyway. By the time the first few chords get strummed, she feels a warm rush of something flow through her body.

_You crawl to me and I crawl to you  
And in the middle we meet  
You drink from me and I swallow you 'cause in my heart the rent is cheap_

_I've been staying up way too late  
You wanna love me girl  
Don't hesitate  
I've been staying up and I've been waking up_

_Pray this world will see me now as you do  
I've never looked so good_

She remembers this song. She remembers late nights, cold beer, stolen kisses, sheets of illegible writing and scribbled chord progressions strewn across a table and his voice, warm and intoxicating, interrupting himself every so often to ask her what she thought of a verse.

He looks up then and their gazes hold.

_I crawl through this city and I'm looking for you  
I chase the darkened streets  
I call your name darling 'cause it's all I can do  
I sing to you, my sweet_

_I've been staying up way too late  
You wanna love me girl  
Don't hesitate  
I've been staying up and I've been waking up_

_Pray this world will see me now as you do  
I've never looked so good_

_And if there's a reason to run, will you run right back to me  
And if there's nowhere to go will you come  
Come to me  
Come to me  
_

His voice falters slightly on the last note and she has to tear her eyes away because it's too much.

_I've been staying up way too late  
You wanna love me girl  
Don't hesitate  
I've been staying up and I've been waking up  
Mmm, I pray this world will see me now as you do  
And if it was mine I'd give it all to you_

_I pray this world will see me now as you do  
I've never looked so good_

He ends with a flourish and then there is only silence. But soon enough, the clapping starts, builds and doesn't stop for several minutes. In the meantime, Puck has his eyes narrowed at Finn while mouthing 'traitor'. Naturally, his best friend is careful not to look at him directly. And again she wonders how much their friends know.

He takes a good long look around and catches her eye. With that, and a glance at Artie and Finn, he immediately launches into a jazzed up, acoustic version of _Valerie_, with the two other men quickly jumping in. The infectiousness of the melody soon has the room singing along and no one notices her brooding silently in the corner, nursing her drink.

"You know, it's times like this that make me wonder if Glee Club was just an excuse for you kids to serenade each other." Turning to the person who had taken to stand beside her, she can't help but grin. Will Schuester's guileless smile is a sight for sore eyes. "Never grew out of it, did you?"

A shocked laugh escapes her and she shakes her head in disbelief. "How are you, Mr. Schue?"

"Come on, Rachel. It's Will now." There is concern in his eyes. "And I'm supposed to be asking you that."

"I'd rather you didn't, really."

Looking between her and the man currently singing lead, he answers her question anyway. "Well, I'm good. Still fighting the good fight, as they say. But I hear congratulations are in order. Streisand's role, huh?" His prideful grin practically splits his face."I don't know what else to say except I always knew you could do it."

"Thank you," she says in a grateful whisper.

Before Will can say anything else, the song ends to raucous applause and laughter. All three men make exaggerated bows to her amusement before Puck leaves the 'stage' with a flourish and Artie and Finn start rapping. _Rapping_. Giving Will a mock glare that says 'It's all your fault they even thought they could rap', the man can only raise his hands up in surrender.

The only member of the trio with obviously enough sense soon joins them. He manages to slip in beside her, the sheer solidness of his body warming her side. "Sup, Schue," Puck says succinctly.

"Puck," Will says in turn. Taking one last appraising look at the two former students now standing in front of each other, he drops his head to whisper in Rachel's ear. "I don't really know what's going on with you or with Puck but whatever it is, I'm sure you two will work it out." And with a pat of her hand, he leaves.

There is a long pause before Puck clears his throat. "Hey."

Turning her head slightly, she sees him with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching her. "Hey back."

She doesn't know how long they stand there like that but she is vaguely aware of his hand sliding down her arm and holding her hand lightly in his.

She feels him tug on where they are joined. "What?"

"Come on," he says, tugging on her hand again.

She hesitates. "Where are we going?"

"Just trust me." He smiles softly at her. "You trust me, don't you?"

_Always, _ she says in her head but out loud, she just lets the way she weaves her fingers with his be her answer.

* * *

It is nice and toasty in his truck and not for the first time, it's like déjà fucking vu. The girl beside him, the route they are taking, even the sweater she is wearing. He takes a peek at her from the corner of his eye, sees her mouthing the words to an old Journey song on the radio, and grins.

He doesn't know how he manages to drive them both in his stick shift while still holding her hand. Hell, he doesn't even know why she hasn't let go either.

Eventually, places start looking pretty familiar and he eases off the gas to come to a complete stop in a deserted parking lot.

"We're here," he announces.

Still idly humming, she looks out the window at the recognizable boxy building and the four letters prominently displayed. "_Here_?" She twists around to face him, eyebrow already raised. "You brought me back to _McKinley_?"

Instead of answering and hearing her possibly shriek at him, he just climbs out of the truck and rounds around to the passenger side. Surprisingly, she has already climbed down (the fact that he missed the panty show bums him out a little) and is staring at him with her arms crossed. He's hoping that the old Puckerman charm will get him back in her good graces.

"That smile's not going to work on me, Puckerman."

Damn.

"What are you up to?" she continues, squinting at him.

"Just trust me." He practically drags her to the padlocked doors. When his back is turned, he hears this huge gasp coming from her.

"Please tell me we're not about to commit a felony."

"Okay, I won't."

"Noah!"

He turns right back around and laughs outright at the picture of outraged dignity in front of him. She looks like she's about 3 seconds away from stomping her foot and diva-ing off. "Relax, will ya?" he drawls, holding up an object in his hand. "I scammed the keys from Satan-a. It pays to have friends in low places."

He can hear her muttering under her breath behind him as he undoes the locks and opens the front doors.

"Great Scott, Marty," Rachel snarks as she peers into the familiar hall of red lockers and shiny floors of their past.

"Haha, you're a real comedian," he deadpans as he pockets the keys. The damned school somehow looks exactly how they left it. He can practically see Coach Sylvester pushing a freshman into the lockers while snarling about how her Mossad training was wasted on mouthbreathers like him.

"Well," he begins, draping an arm around her shoulders. "Seem smaller to you now that you're back?"

She tilts her head to the side. "Nah, not really."

He snickers before pulling her with him further inside.

* * *

They end up in front of the trophy case right outside the choir room. After another three-way battle between Figgins, Sylvester and Schue, which only ended when Rachel butt in with another ACLU threat (he nudges her with a chuckle when he remembers that), the Glee Club finally had its own trophy case separate from the Cheerios and the rest of the athletic department.

It has all of their trophies in it, from Sectionals in sophomore year to the ultimate prize: first place at Nationals in senior year. It also has a framed picture of them winning it in Washington, D.C. They are all decked in costumes of bright electric blue and the first place trophy dwarfs Rachel, who is beaming brighter than a supernova in the picture.

"I can't believe we wore those costumes," she whispers quietly, her finger tracing over their faces through the glass. "Was it just me or was every damned dress exactly the same?"

He grimaces. "_I_ can't believe someone put the 'Run Joey Run' video on YouTube. When I find out who did it, there'll be hell to pay."

"Well I personally think it was some of your best work. You truly showed your artistic integrity in that video, Noah." He can see her biting her lip to keep from outright laughing at his pain. "Especially when you tried to stop Mr. Ryerson from feeling you up."

She squeals in surprise when he turns on her with a mock growl and he ends up chasing her across the building. It is intoxicating, this giddiness she feels. She doesn't think she's laughed this hard in so long. They are slipping and sliding on the freshly waxed floors, their voices echoing in the empty halls when he suddenly skids to a stop in front of the boy's locker room.

Her shoes (how she manages to run in high heels will forever be a mystery) squeak when she stops too. "What is it?" she pants.

He doesn't answer except to tap lightly on the locker number 20 in front of him.

His old locker.

Ignoring her for a minute, he does this complicated knock sequence on the metal door that has the lock opening for him easily. Opening it reverently despite her protesting squawks, he finds…a mountain of teenage crap.

"Well, it appears the locker now belongs to a girl named Courtney." She snags a test paper that flutters to the floor and raises an eyebrow. "Who apparently has your study habits," she says drily, waving the C- in math in his face.

"But incredibly shitty taste in music," he continues absentmindedly, fingering the Justin Bieber-wallpapered door. Lifting up one unfastened corner on a hunch, he smiles at what he finds underneath.

"Come see," he tells her. And when she sees what he's pointing at – **RB+NP** sharpie'd on the corner in his ridiculous scrawl – she smiles, too.

Except the smile drops off her face when she sees him contorting his body to reach into the farthest corner of the small space. "Noah," she whisper-shouts like there's actually somebody there to see them. "What on earth are you doing?"

Again, he ignores her. His face is scrunched up in concentration as his arm feels around blindly among the shit on the locker floor. "Aha."

There is a metallic clank when he manages to lift one corner of the false bottom and finally gets what he was looking for from within the deep, dark recesses of the hidden compartment. When he raises his prize in triumph, she just snorts in disbelief.

"A joint? You broke into a teenage girl's locker to retrieve a _joint_? I'm not even going to start on how illegal, not to mention unsanitary, that is." Arms crossed across her chest, she stares him down and asks the important question. "Besides, is it still even good?"

"Huh." His forehead furrowed, he looks intently at the rolled cigarette. "Dunno. Do these things have an expiry date?"

She huffs in amused exasperation. With a shrug, he just grounds the thing into dust between his fingers and brushes it off before he grabs her hand again. He pulls her into the lockers, through the gym, out the side doors and into the football field. Not surprisingly, they end up on the bleachers on the south end, a light breeze mussing up her dark hair.

They talk then among the very mundane background of metal benches. Maybe it is something about this spot (their spot) or the place or just the day itself because words seem to come naturally. It is a litany of 'do-you-remembers' (_Do you remember when Jewfro serenaded you with _You Belong With Me_? Do you remember when you gave him two black eyes afterwards? Do you remember when we almost got suspended for excessive PDA in the library? Do you remember the time you sang _Touch Myself?), a recounting of the past.

She feels like they are making up for time lost but like they haven't lost any time at all.

There is a lull in conversation after she has just laughed herself out at his retelling of how he really got Finn to flash the student body with his 'student body' during graduation. She is carefully wiping away a tear when he asks her something that she had asked herself time and time again.

"You ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn't gotten pregnant?

The answer comes automatically. "All the time. But," she pauses slightly before continuing. "Having her, I couldn't imagine doing anything else, being anything else." She lets out a teary laugh. "I still can't imagine it."

"Neither can I," he whispers, lightly bumping her shoulder with his.

She bumps back and gives him a soft smile. "I even remember we still had these plans to drive to New York once she was old enough for preschool and trying to make it there any way we could."

"Oh, I remember." A flash of the old Puck shows through in his smirk. "Especially remember the color-coded charts and graphs. I think you made something like Plans A to Plan M."

She moves to slap him playfully but he catches her hand in his before it can make contact. He doesn't let it go either and he rubs his thumb in circles across her palm. Despite herself, she shivers.

Almost immediately, he turns solicitous. "You cold?" Without waiting for her answer, he pulls her close and starts rubbing her upper arms. She is enveloped in him and breathing has become difficult. With every inhalation, she can smell his cologne and it is making her dizzy. The feel of his hands on her, the heat from his body warming her skin, his warm breath against her neck - it is heady and familiar and exciting. It also feels a lot like something she shouldn't be doing.

She pulls away slightly and he lets her. But he still doesn't let go, instead holding her hand and studying it like it held the secrets of the universe. "You know what bothered me the most after everything?" he says so quietly, she can barely hear him. "That you could just walk away."

A little of her old anger flares up. "I didn't _just _walk away. It didn't _just_ happen." She shuts her eyes and tells herself to calm herself down. "It was the only way I knew how to cope, Noah. I had to leave before you left me."

His jaw is clenched and he looks as if he is biting his tongue. She is gearing herself up for another fight and she doesn't want to think that this wonderful day is going to end like this, with them on opposite sides of the ring, jabbing at each other again. So she totally doesn't expect his answer.

"I was a mess and I made a whole fuckload of mistakes but I never would've left." He shakes his head. "Shit, B, I thought you knew me. How could I have ever left you?"

Several minutes pass where the only sound she can hear is the pounding of her own heart. Dimly, she can feel the warmth where his hand is still holding on to hers like a lifeline. Her throat is dry and a small part of her hates, _hates_ him for changing the entire game like this. But she feels that his honesty deserves something of the same.

"I always thought that one day I'd find you waiting on my doorstep," she says finally, her eyes trained on the horizon._ I was waiting for you to, _the voice in her head continues.

* * *

He has to close his eyes against the feelings that threaten to overwhelm him when he hears those words coming from her. It just brings up things he did or didn't do, fucked up decisions he made that he'd rather she not know.

"Funny how life works, huh?" he mutters, finally letting her hand go in favor of resting both elbows on the seat behind them. Almost immediately, he feels colder. "Still, I'm glad you got everything you ever wanted. I'm glad you're happy," he continues soberly, refusing to look at her.

"Well, yes. I'm happy, aren't I?" Her voice morphs into one so goddamned perky, he instantly knows something is wrong. "Yes, I'm definitely happy with the direction that my professional life is going."

He raises his eyebrow. "That isn't really what I meant, Rach. You are happy, right?" He stops staring at the goalpost and looks at her. "_He_ makes you happy?"

Her big doe eyes are wide and unblinking as she gapes at him for a long minute before she blinks once and looks away. "I'm not sure you want me to answer that question," she sidesteps deftly.

"Are you sure it's not because you don't want to?"

Her quick intake of breath would be unnoticeable if he wasn't studying her so closely or if he didn't know her like he did. She is having a conversation with herself, he knows, and it'd be fucking important for him to know what else is going on in that gorgeous head of hers. But right now, all he can think of is that it's unfair.

Unfair that she's so close to him and he's definitely near enough to kiss her if he wants to. (And he wants to.) Unfair that every time she shifts in her seat, her perfume hits his nose and it's driving him fucking nuts. (It's the same one she's worn forever, the same one he picked out.) Unfair that he had to spend two years without this woman.

He wants her to look at him again so he tilts her chin up. But when she does and hazel eyes meet brown, it is too much and suddenly he can't bear the thought that he isn't touching her. He's feeling lightheaded and untethered and slightly stupid but he knows what's going to happen. Reckless or not, stupid or not, at that moment, it was going to happen. He could play it safe and spend the rest of his life wondering…or he could say the hell with it and jump of the fucking cliff. Because he was tired of wishing and wondering if only.

In his opinion, 'if only' are two of the saddest words in the world.

* * *

His gaze is boring into her and she cannot look away even if she wanted to. The look in his eyes makes her breath stutter. To her knowledge, no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at her the way he does now. Like he wants to hold her close and devour her at the same time. She can feel the warmth of his breath fan across her face and her eyes are immediately drawn to his lips. For a second, she wonders why she was so adamant in resisting this pull between them. She finds her eyes closing on their own accord.

His hand moves to the nape of her neck then slides into her hair before his mouth closes the distance between them. There is a moment of sudden silence, a rush of heat and she is falling, falling, falling deeper. His arms come around her, pressing her closer and his tongue is teasing her lips. She parts her lips and her tongue darts out in return. It is just like she remembers, only better, because she feels like she's been waiting forever for this.

She has forgotten everything. She is burning.

* * *

She just melts into him, her small body pliant in his arms. He swallows hard and slides his lips up her jaw, her neck, peppering small kisses into her skin, savoring the taste and the smell of her. He can't help thinking, _Finally. _He lingers on the spot just below her ear, _his_ spot, and exhales slowly against her skin. Her fingers are in his hair and it feels so good, it almost breaks him.

He gently places his fingers along the curve of her jaw and turns her head to capture her lips between his again. "I missed you so fucking much," he murmurs softly.

* * *

He says the words so quietly, she thinks she has imagined them. And when he breaks away from the kiss and buries his face in her hair, she feels rather than hears him breathe her name. She feels it from the top of her head down to her toes.

Her heart knocks a staccato rhythm against her ribs when the lips she has kissed thousands of times twitch into a half smile. She loved that smile once upon time (Still does). He moves to kiss her again and even though she doesn't want to, she stops him with a hand on his chest. Before anything else, she has to know.

"What is this, Noah?"

* * *

The heat of her hand through the layers of his clothing gives him pause and the just-kissed-Rachel fog lifts from his brain slightly. He looks at her, lips red from kissing, long hair mussed, eyes uncertain and hesitant, and thinks that she's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Cupping her cheek with his hand, he presses his forehead to hers. "This is a second chance."

When he pulls back, he sees the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He takes that chance to kiss it off.

* * *

**AN:** Songs featured/mentioned are:

_- Not For the Life Of Me_ from Thoroughly Modern Millie

_- Fuck You_ by Cee-Lo Green (the current top pick on my iPod)

_- Goodbye Kiss_ by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals (look for the acoustic version on Youtube, they're amazing!)

_- Come to Me_ by the Damnwells (again, poetic license by appropriating a song; sorry, Alex Dezen)

_- Valerie_ by the Zutons


	11. AN: Update

First off, apologies to my wonderful readers for this little bit of subterfuge. I know it's been forever since I've updated BTY but fear not! I haven't abandoned this story. Far from it. You'll all be happy to know that I've scaled the Matterhorn of all writer's blocks and will be posting Chapter 11 some time next week. So thank you all for the kind reviews, the nudges and the way you've been rooting for this story. It means so much to me and, really, I wouldn't have gotten this far without all of you guys.

Now for the good stuff: in case you haven't heard, I've teamed up with my partner in crime **maggiequeen ** on a very ambitious project to write a revamped Glee role reversal with Rachel Berry as McKinley's resident badass queen and Noah Puckerman as the misunderstood glee loser. You know, as if we didn't have enough to do as it is. Because we told ourselves, "It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it" ;)

Basically, we've been working on it since November and the number of emails that have been exchanged…lemme tell ya, Hotmail and Gmail should be paying us. From the set lists to the characterization to whether or not a certain haircut works on a character, we've talked about it. Hell, we could write a thesis about it at this point. It's a lot of work but honestly, I've never enjoyed writing more. Our fic is called **the planets bend between us **and we're officially known as **the joker and the queen. **I promise you - it's nothing like you've seen before. There will be massive amounts of slushie, amazing songs, epic drama, some wonderful humor and banter, swordfights (okay, maybe no swordfights…) and a lovely Puckleberry romance in the middle of it all.

So come check us out! You won't regret it :)

Lori


	12. Chapter 11

**AN: **I want to apologize to everyone for the lateness and the shortness of this update. Other than a virus purporting to be antivirus software making its sweet home in my hard drive and completely erasing _everything_, I have no excuse. That's what I get for not backing up my data :P So what you're getting here is 1 weeks worth of cramming and trying to remember exactly what it is I wrote. It's been a struggle, lemme tell you that. This chapter was supposed to be longer but in the interest of you guys, you know, _not hating me_ for the non-update, I split it into two parts. Hopefully, I remember the second half of the story a little faster and I can post it in a few days. Sorry again and hopefully, there's still some of you that are interested in this story despite my months-long disappearing act. Hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think.

* * *

Rachel wakes up in the dark, disoriented beyond belief. She knows she isn't in her room; the smell, while familiar, is all wrong, for one, and her fathers would never have allowed sheets of this thread count in their home. Then the bed moves and a tan arm drapes across her stomach to pull her close.

The fit of the body spooned against hers should have been her first clue.

Instantly, memories of the past three hours come back to her. The kiss on the bleachers, the speedy ride back to his empty house…then her back hitting the door as soon as it closed and his lips on her in a desperate attempt to steal away her very breath. The rest is a blur of heat and skin and kisses hard enough to bruise and two heartbeats in synchrony.

She manages to turn over and face him without dislodging the arm he has wrapped around her – a skill perfected over many nights like this. With one arm pinned to her side, she watches him as her free hand searches for his cheek in the darkness. Eventually her fingertips find their destination, and she takes the side of his warm face into her hand. Her hands and feet have always been cool to the touch, something the man beside her had complained about time and time again, and his body heat is a pleasing contrast.

The stubble that is already starting to grow scratches against her palm. Smoothing a thumb over his cheek and the corner of his lips, she feels rather than hears him sigh. He looks peaceful, his light breaths interspersed with the random gibberish that he usually mumbles when he's in deep, deep sleep. Even as she pulls back to look at him fully, her hand continues to slowly ghost across his face, his arm, make trails down his side, over his back. It is like she has no control over her own faculties; she just has to touch him. The next few moments are filled with the sound of his breathing and the silent ache of her heart. She doesn't know how she can miss him this much when he is right beside her.

She snuggles back under his left arm and scooches down to lay her head on his chest. Its hypnotic rising and falling could almost put her to sleep, if not for her parched throat and her overactive mind. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, if she held on to him tight enough, she could forget the questions the new day would bring. But eventually, her thirst is too much for her to ignore. Right now, she positively craves a glass of water. Not because she's sad or upset but because one cannot go through two rounds with Noah Puckerman without feeling even a little bit thirsty.

And okay, famished too.

She tiptoes silently around his room, looking for something, anything, to cover her nakedness. Slipping on a plaid button-down discarded on the floor, she pads downstairs to the kitchen and thanks all that is holy that Becca had decided to spend the night at a friend's house. She doesn't think she can do a pseudo-walk of shame in front of her teenaged sister-in-law.

According to the clock in the living room, it is now 1:14 am. She fills a glass with water from the tap and is about to take an apple from the counter when her stomach growls. On second thought, maybe something a little more filling would suffice. Minutes later, she is enjoying a silence punctuated by the steady hum of the microwave where her leftover pasta is heating. It's nice, it gives her time to reflect. Of course, her mind has taken this to mean that it should flash random moments from the last few hours every few minutes (_his head pillowed on her thigh, the roughness of his fingers when they touched her, the hot, hard press of him inside her_) and she finds she has to press the cold glass against her cheek to keep it from burning off entirely.

Half an hour later, when the pasta is long gone and she is standing at the foot of the stairs, debating on whether she should go back to bed (to _him_) or not. It's not that she doesn't want to. It's just…she'd rather digest that primavera doing other pursuits more productive than cuddling (yes, she said _cuddling_).

The lights blind her momentarily when she descends into the basement-slash-recording studio. Again, she stands in awe of what he has man aged to accomplish. She knows he played it down somewhat yesterday but being in the business for a while, having been groomed for it long enough, she knows what it all means. The fact that he has made a name for himself as a producer and a songwriter, garnering the attention of both up-and-coming, as well as established bands like the ones on his wall, it is extraordinary. It could be the psychic in her or the objective musician or just the woman who knows this man but she has a feeling that he is going to go far. That Ohio is too small to contain this much talent.

And despite herself, she can't help but imagine him in another studio, in front of another recording desk like this, in another city, one that always hums with sirens on the streets and subway trains underfoot.

_Stop_, she thinks, shaking her head lightly to dislodge traitorous thoughts. In that way lay madness. Instead, she focuses her thoughts on the room itself. She meanders her way around the space, trailing her fingers along the sliders on the soundboard, the polished wood of the desk and the metal of the frames. On a whim, she takes the Martin from its stand and makes herself at home on the big swivel chair. Her fingers start forming rudimentary chords and she takes a deep breath, fancying the warm notes of wood and leather as the essence of Noah. He is everywhere in this room. But then again, she realizes as she opens her eyes and takes a closer look – so is she.

She is in the small collage of snapshots haphazardly taped to the wall and the lone framed photo residing on the wall beside band covers and musicians. Both her face and Caroline's stare back with grins frozen on their faces. She is in his sheet music and in the hastily scribbled lyrics about the girl with stars in her eyes. She is even in the shelves of shelves full of his vinyl records on one side of the room which, years later, are still arranged in the Berry Music Organizational System – by genre, then artist name then by year of release (God knows that was a battle well-fought; if it were up to him, he'd probably have LPs piled on the floor wherever they landed and she'd be stepping over Bob Dylan lying next to AC/DC). Interspersed with his present and his work…was her. And them.

Because all the time she had spent trying to forget, he had spent remembering.

Questions that she had shoved to the back of her mind from the moment she got out of his bed come fighting their way back. And they brought some new friends with them. She grits her teeth against the onslaught. This isn't what she wants. What she wants is…is…_goddamnit_, _what does she want_? But instead of finding that out, she gets a strangled chord instead. She shakes her head and loosens the chokehold she has over the guitar neck. It wouldn't do well for Noah to suffer a stroke when he finds that she has murdered his beloved instrument. She takes a calming breath. Right here, right now, what she wants is…to remember how to play G7. Yup, that's her story and she's sticking with it.

She holds the dark wood lovingly against her and positions her fingers in the way she was taught. Guitar had never been one of her strengths but she did have a good teacher a long time ago. Besides, music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, did it not? Especially since this savage breast contained confused heart. She strums random chords, hoping that maybe it will take away the disquiet in her mind. Eventually, random turns purposeful and she recognizes the chords she's been mindlessly strumming as his.

_And if there's a reason to run, will you run right back to me  
And if there's nowhere to go, will you come_

_Come to me_

She is startled from her soft singing by the songwriter.

"Been practicing?" He is standing by the door, arms crossed, chest bare, jeans unbuttoned.

One last strum and "Yes well, my teacher wouldn't like it very much if I forgot all the skills he taught me."

"Oh don't worry - he doesn't mind at all," he says, appraising her clothing or lack thereof. She can't contain her blush (or the muffled sigh of relief at her foresight to put on some underwear). Seeing the pinkness of her cheeks, he smirks. "Nothing I haven't seen before, babe. Territory well covered, actually."

Rolling her eyes at him, she stands to return the guitar. She lets out a surprised gasp when, without a word, his strong arms reach around her and pull her easily toward him until her back rested against his chest, her body immediately fitting against his like it always did. Her eyes fall shut automatically at the feel of his nose nuzzling her neck.

"Come back to bed," he whispers against her skin.

Apparently, all that awkwardness she was so afraid of disappeared under the heat of his caress. She relaxes but a tight coil of something familiar begins building in her belly once again. Her arms come to rest on the ones wound around her torso and when she does, her hands encounter a familiar metallic impediment – the band still on his left ring finger. She doesn't have to have it in front of her to know what was engraved on the inside.

"I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine," she murmurs to herself as she fingers the cold metal and she is suddenly back to a day 4 years ago.

"_Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Puckerman - smile!"_

_They pose under the chuppah, her face aching from the ear-splitting grin she has frozen on. Her husband has one hand on her not-really-showing-yet belly as he too mugs it for the camera but she has no idea where his other hand went. _

"_So help me, if you're making bunny ears again, Noah Puckerman, you're not getting laid! Even if it is our wedding night!"_

_Puck laughs in her ear. "Chillax, B. My hand's right here," he says, indicating the arm he now has around her shoulders._

_Finn is finally done with his impromptu duties as official wedding photographer and as Rachel smoothes down her simple white eyelet dress (a deeply discounted J. Crew, which was really the only thing they could afford), she watches the rest of her wedding party, such as it was. _

_Her new husband is currently giving the best man/wedding photographer a fist bump. Kurt, the de facto stylist/decorator, is talking to Mr. Schue, going into raptures, complete with hand gestures, about going to design school in New York (at this, she cannot hide suppress the pang in her heart). Becca, her maid of honor/bridesmaid/flower girl, is bouncing around, high on sugar from the wedding cake. Aviva, the caterer for this quasi-reception in her own backyard, is quietly talking to her dad, Alan, who is having another glass of wine. _

_The only touch of melancholy on this joyful day is the very obvious absence of her daddy, James. At that thought, she finds herself twirling her wedding band round and round, still unused to its feel around her finger. She cannot forget how he looked the last time she saw him – his tall frame practically shaking in anger, his face stony and his tone harsh as he berated her for being a fool._

"_He'll get over it." Puck is suddenly next to her, knowing the thoughts flying about in her head as usual. _

"_I hope you're right," she whispers. She clutches his hand close and twines their fingers together._

_He flashes her his signature smirk. "Of course I am. Dude, I'm the Puckerone."_

"_Don't call your wife 'dude'," she admonishes._

_He smirks again and kisses her lightly. "I love you," and with a quick look around to make sure that no one is watching, he kisses her fabric-covered stomach. "And I love you."_

"Rach?" He has turned her towards him, his face only inches from her own. "You okay? Lost you there for a while."

"You still wear your ring," she asks softly, instead of answering. His hand is still in hers, her fingers still continuous in their idle tracing. "Why?"

His answer is deceptively simple. "Because I still do."

Telling him off for being flippant is on the tip of her tongue but the way his lips attach to that sensitive spot just behind her ear tells her that the time for questions is over. He kisses his way down to her collarbone and does he even remember what that does to her? Based on the smile she now feels against her skin at her quick whimper, she can safely say he remembers.

He kisses a trail back to her lips and the kiss is so light and his tongue is tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue and he's making her so crazy, she can't stand it. He's teasing her and, in his own words, that shit just isn't kosher. So it falls to her to take his face between her hands and deepen the kiss, crashing lips, tongue and teeth together. It turns heated soon enough and when she veers off course and tugs his earlobe with her teeth, he groans deep and low. Suddenly, both of his hands are frantic under her shirt and he is tugging her closer to him, as if that was even possible. Buttons pop off, skin melds against skin, and it feels like he is kissing every inch of her.

"Wait."

He stills and looks at the hand she has pressing on his chest with a disgruntled expression. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was actually pouting. Rolling her eyes the best she can while they are half-lidded in pleasure, she explains. "Do you think maybe we can manage to get to the bed this time?"

He quirks his eyebrow at her and she lets out a shriek when he slaps her ass unexpectedly. "Get steppin', shorty," he says with a positively evil grin.


	13. Chapter 12

AN: Sorry this took so long. Apparently, I now have trouble writing multi-chaps all by myself. I blame you, **maggiequeen**…only not really ;)

* * *

She has a head start on him, her laughter drifting down from the top of the stairs, but he takes his time in following her. It seems bizarre that only two days ago they were practically at each other's throats and now they were…he didn't know what they were, not really. He knows what he wants them to be but apart from that…

Apparently 'what they were' involved fucking each other silly in the hallway, kitchen table and bathroom.

Exhausted, he had fallen asleep with his wife (his _wife_) in his arms, his nose buried in her hair, thinking that it was like the world had tipped over and shit that hadn't made sense before suddenly seemed all right again. He had woken up hours later with those same arms empty, and fuck if he would ever tell anyone what he felt when he saw the blank expanse of bed where a tiny, loud-mouthed brunette should have been. For one minute, he was scared that the last few hours, the last few days even, had just been a sick, sad dream that he had been unlucky enough to wake up from.

The sight of her skirt and her shoes lying where they had been tossed the night before did enough to prevent him dying from a fucking aneurysm but he had to be sure. And when he finally found her, he could've stayed there just watching her, listening to her play for hours. Unfortunately, the caveman in him wanted to appreciate the fuck out of her bare legs peeking out from under his shirt instead. He ended up listening to the caveman (poor schmuck hadn't gotten any play for a long-ass time), hence his current predicament.

He gets to the upstairs hallway and smiles automatically at the giggle he hears coming from his bedroom. God, he hasn't felt this light in years. And it has nothing to do with the sex (okay, he's lying; it's partly to do with the sex) and everything to do with the woman in that room. He walks through the door expecting to find her on the bed, waiting for him. Instead, he gets an armful of woman when she pounces on him, her legs going immediately around his waist and her arms around his neck. Midget was freakishly strong and his head hits the back of the door with a thump. She pulls back with a grimace, ready to apologize, but he slants his mouth against hers before she can say a word.

It is messy and frenzied and impatient and awesome. Somehow, somewhere between him fusing his lips to hers and her shoving a hand below the waistband of his jeans, he manages to walk them a few steps towards the bed. All his senses are consumed by her and only her. Of course, this only means he ends up almost slipping on the skirt left lying on the floor and sending both of them tumbling to the floor. It's a close call and her legs tighten around him, bringing their two halves closer together, drawing a low moan from him when he feels the heat of her right where he wants it, needs it.

Her eyes are sparkling as she watches him shift her into a more secure (and less dangerous, at least for him) position. "Don't let me go, okay?" she giggles.

As he pulls back and looks at her, it reminds him exactly who he has in his arms. Suddenly, all his words, too many words he wants to tell her, they bottleneck somewhere in his throat in their rush to get away and he is left with nothing. The only thing left is for him to murmur softly, "Okay. I won't."

The look on her face is soft and wondering as she releases one of the hands looped around his neck to cup the side of his face, the smooth glide of her thumb over the crest of his jaw almost enough to break him. It is a moment when either of them could have said the words that the other needed but the spell is abruptly broken when his knees meet a solid obstacle and they both fall into the mattress with an oof.

Her surprised laughter echoes in his ears as he scrambles to right himself and not, you know, crush her. He stands at the foot of the bed, staring at her (he seems to be doing a lot of that lately) as she smiles that smile he loves and watches him watching her. Long, slender fingers are finally moving to take off the abused button-down she is wearing and smooth, tan skin is exposed to his eyes once again. He can read her thoughts in her eyes when he starts taking his pants off and the way she bites her lip makes him groan. He'd be embarrassed by how easily this woman makes him lose his shit if he wasn't so used to the fact. Her gaze is positively filthy once he moves to join her on the bed and he finds that he doesn't have to pull her into his arms because she is already there. Her mouth is already seeking his again, as if it were making up for lost time. It is a haze of familiar tastes, familiar smells as they fall into each other, their bodies rocking together without clumsiness, without the uncertainty of first-time lovers. This is a tango they had perfected time and time again and they fall into the steps like they had never left the dance floor.

They crash together once, twice, who knows how many times, before they finally collapse in each other's arms, sweaty and sated. Smirking, he flicks away a piece of hair sticking to her forehead and she smiles drowsily back at him and kisses him lightly on the corner of his mouth. His brain is telling him to get up, wash up or do any number of sensible things that would have him leave the circle of her arms but he finds that nope, he doesn't really want to. He'd rather just stay like this for a really long time, thank you very much.

Eventually, he falls asleep to the music of her murmurs in his ear and a whispered "Noah" just before she too succumbs to slumber. And in his childhood bed, husband and wife dream.

* * *

A while later, Puck staggers awake. He looks around the room wildly, trying to figure out what woke him, but there is nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. Rachel is on her stomach beside him, her breathing slow and steady, and he would like nothing more to join her but unfortunately, he can't. Whether he likes it or not, he is left wide-awake, with remnants of a rapidly fading dream on his mind and a sleeping woman by his side. He watches her for a little while and without any conscious thought, his hand is making nonsensical patterns across the bare expanse of her back.

"Baby, you awake? Rach?" The only reply he gets is a gentle snore. He lets his hand fall to the top of her head and encircle the side of her face lovingly, before running a finger over her lips. Before speaking again, he rolls over on his side and rests his forehead against hers. Her breath puffs against his lips and he sighs.

You'd think it wouldn't be hard talking to someone who was basically unconscious but Noah Puckerman is at a loss for words. Both the teenager who waxed poetic on a porch swing and the young man who wrote songs about love and loss have apparently left the building. He doesn't know how to say everything that is in his heart. It should be simple because it only wants one thing: her. Just her. For the rest of their lives. That's all he's wanted since he was 18 and the years that passed hasn't changed that. But saying it out loud? Ah, there's the rub.

(He doesn't want to acknowledge it's because of the tiny, beat-up, scarred piece of his heart that is scared of being abandoned again.)

He thumbs the apple of her cheek and chuckles softly when she snores a little louder. "I miss you," he manages to blurt out. In the stillness, he watches her carefully for any clue that she might be faking it. No hitch in her breathing, no twitching of her lips - good, she was definitely asleep. Woman wasn't that good (her showface never worked on him, at least). He brushes off a piece of hair that had fallen into her face and marvels at how long her lashes look against her cheeks.

"I know I said it before but I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, these past 2 years have been hell. I could have taken it if you blamed me. I could have taken it even if you hated me a little bit. What I couldn't take was you leaving me." He lets out a drowsy laugh when he realizes he sounds completely insane, basically carrying on a conversation with himself. But once the word vomit started coming out, he really had no choice except hang on for the ride. If there was a time to be telling secrets, it would be now. "And it hurts like a bitch because I miss you all the goddamned time." He takes a breath. "I don't want to miss you anymore."

He knows he's fucked, loving this girl. Hell, he was fucked from the moment she first smiled at him over the top of a Big Gulp.

"Sometimes, I forget you're not with me." With a yawn, he circles as arm around her waist and holds her closer. "And sometimes, if I blink my eyes enough, I think I'll just wake up and you'd still be there sleeping next to me," he whispers against her skin.

As he finally falls asleep, there are two things Puck doesn't realize: 1) the past two years have made Rachel a better actress and, 2) she misses him, too.

* * *

"I feel like a guy taking his girl back home after the first date. 'S'like we're in high school again." For this little nugget of wisdom, Puck gets an eye roll and an elbow to the side. He grins at the woman beside him as they walk in the darkening twilight.

"Hasn't that been the whole theme of the evening?" she asks drily.

He makes a show of rubbing the scruff on his chin. "I don't know. If it was, you definitely wouldn't have put out last night. Fuck, it took me three months before I even got boob action."

She gets a glint in her eye that has him worried that yes, they are revisiting the past and soon he would face all the wrath that is high school Rachel Berry. But to his surprise, she merely smirks at him and tugs on the front of his shirt to bring him closer to her height. "Well, that is true. But I think I more than made up for it afterwards," she whispers in his ear before tugging him down the rest of the way to kiss him firmly on the lips.

She pulls away far too quickly but he doesn't let her get far, snagging her hand in his and pulling her closer. With a quirk to her brow, she takes the hand-holding in stride and merely smiles at him. Him, on the other hand…well, he doesn't know what changed in the space of last night (aside from the obvious) but the smile she turns to him seems brighter and yet softer at the same time.

They had woken up at an ungodly hour (her words, not his), apparently having skipped breakfast and lunch altogether. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, they end up taking their sweet time – showering together, lazily cooking a weird amalgamation of breakfast, lunch and leftovers – and the sun is hanging low in the afternoon sky by the time they make their way to the Berry house. She had protested him accompanying her, saying that she could go home by herself, thank you very much. To which he replied that unless her serial killer van had somehow managed to drive itself from her dads' house to his, he was going to take her home.

Which brought them to the here and now, with them hand in hand, walking up the walkway and the front porch of 107 Vine Street. He can see her glancing at him every so often, her nervous energy showing in the way she chewed on her bottom lip and held on to his hand even tighter. Ticking an eyebrow up, he gives her a look saying _What's with all the crazy, B? _She replies with a sigh and a shrug but the quick glance she takes towards the house tells him all he needs to know. In a move that he would deny to his dying day, he takes the hand he has clasped in his and kisses the back of it sweetly, silently assuring her with his gaze.

The front door opens before they can take the last few steps across the porch and almost immediately, a black blur shoots out. He doesn't really know what that was but he gets even more confused when Rachel promptly lets go of his hand to run after the blur in high-heeled feet. He barely registers Rachel's dad, Alan, saying hello.

"KARL!"

Okay, what the hell is going on? He turns to Alan, who's nursing a cup of coffee, with what he's sure is a WTF expression on his face. Alan just looks at him and says one word: "Cat."

Well that wasn't any help at all. Before he can ask the older man any more questions, a surly Rachel marches back, carrying an equally surly black cat in her arms. Oh…well, it all makes sense now. He takes a look at the cat, then glances back up at Rachel's face and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Didn't figure you liked pussies, Berry."

The glare she turns on him is a mixture of amused and exasperated. "Shut it, Puckerman," she barks out over the yowling of the cat (who was apparently named Karl. Seriously, who names a cat after Karl Malden?). "The cat isn't even mine."

"Well, whose is it?" he asks as he follows her and her dad into the house.

Instead of giving an answer, Rachel just puts down a struggling Karl down. The cat stretches and yawns before looking at her with something eerily resembling a glare before sauntering over to where Puck is standing and winding himself around Puck's legs, purring.

"Freaky," is the only thing he can say, as he tries to subtly shake the furry thing off his leg. Honestly? He hates cats; they creep the fuck out of him. And this particular one had his beady little feline eyes honed on him. Puck suppresses a shudder.

The entertainment on Alan's face as he watches his son-in-law makes said son-in-law want to wipe it off the lawyer's spectacled face. He grins at the couple in front of him as he sips his coffee. "I don't know why but he absolutely hates Rachel," he says in amusement.

With her arms crossed, Rachel grouses, "Yeah, and apparently loves any male attention."

Puck was seriously considering physically lifting the animal off where he was clinging to his pants (the fucking thing was attached, he really was) and putting him far, far away, when the sound of someone coming down the stairs distracts Karl and off he goes like a flash.

The mere sight of James Berry coming into the room would have stunned a lesser man. Here is this tall, black man built like a linebacker, one who looked like he could snap Puck like a twig, making sounds that suspiciously resembled crooning towards the cat in his arms. His face is soft and unguarded as he rubs the top of the purring feline's head and shuffles to an internal beat. He stops dead in his tracks once he notices that he has an audience. "What?" he says defensively.

The sound of Alan snickering almost makes Puck lose it. "Oh, nothing, honey," Alan says placatingly yet with a grin on his face, patting James' arm.

James still looks suspicious but nods anyway. That's when he notices the two other people in the room. A smile breaks across his face when he sees his daughter. "Pumpkin, I didn't hear you come in," he greets as he kisses her cheek. "Did you have a good time at Will Schuester's party?"

"I did. It was fun seeing everyone," Rachel replies easily. Puck glances at her, notes the hint of stiffness still present in the way she talks to the man she called daddy. The years have been kind to their previously strained father-daughter relationship. Any old slights that either might have felt in the time following her announcement that she was pregnant and was marrying her high school boyfriend have more or less faded. Still, he knows that Rachel still remembers the words of her father when he railed against her throwing her life away. On him.

Which is why when he catches her glance at him in turn, he makes sure to give her a (hopefully) reassuring smile. This isn't 5 years ago and he wasn't the same kid who had knocked up his girl.

James is looking at him with the same serious gaze as his daughter. "Noah," he says simply in his deep voice.

"Sir," Puck replies evenly.

A few seconds pass (he's pretty sure Rachel is losing her shit in the meantime) before James shifts Karl in his arms and clasps his hand in welcome, smiling at him. "It's good to see you. You haven't been by in a few weeks."

He keeps a solid grip on James' hand and grins sheepishly in turn. "Yeah, I've been kinda busy."

James nods and claps him on the back. "So, how's that new record going?"

Puck keeps the conversation going, updating James on the record he's producing for one of James' acquaintances who happened to be a semi-retired blues singer. 5 years ago, he would never have thought that the man who looked at him like he wanted nothing more than to kill him with his bare hands, would be the same man that would be one of his staunchest supporters. He'd like to say he got James' approval on his own merit but really, it all started because of Caroline. The love they had for both Caroline and Rachel gave them a tentative start. And when Rachel left him…well, James more often than not was the objective voice talking him down from the ledge. He owed a lot to the man, really.

Meanwhile, Rachel is gaping at the two of them while Alan is looking speculatively at her then at Puck then back again. A conspiratorial smile blooms on his face and he interrupts James' diatribe on Chicago vs. Delta blues. "Why don't we go into the kitchen, dear?" he says, hurrying his husband along to leave Puck and Rachel alone together.

He meets Rachel's raised eyebrows with a smirk. "How did that happen?" she asks him in a shocked whisper. "It feels like I'm in the Twilight Zone."

"It's a long story" is all that Puck says as he drapes an arm around her shoulder.

But before she can interrogate him further, Alan's slightly higher register interrupts them. "So, Noah," comes the shout from the kitchen. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" Then there is a sound of a scuffle and a muffled _No, I will NOT recite a line from a Disney film! Are you insane?_

"Yeah, I would," he replies, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Good," she mumbles, answering for her dad and drawing his attention back to her. Her hand has migrated to his chest and is drawing little circles on his shirt. When she looks back up at him, he gets lost in the depths of her gaze. "Then maybe afterwards, we can finally talk."

He drops a kiss on her forehead and draws her a little bit closer. "I'd like that," he breathes.

Rachel smiles contentedly at him before moving to help her dads in the kitchen. Just then the doorbell rings and he waves her off with an "It's okay, I'll get it".

The last thing Puck expects to see on the doorstep (okay, maybe not the last but it's pretty close) is a man about his age clutching a huge bouquet of red roses. He's a little confused because he's pretty sure he doesn't know any tall guys with longish blonde hair, ugly ties and vacant grins. The guy has an expensive, if slightly wrinkled, gray suit on and behind him, Puck can see a chauffeured town car waiting.

"Yes?" he asks.

Dude smiles at him a little apprehensively. "Is this the Berry residence?"

Puck frowns. "Yeah, what's it to you?" He knows he's being rude but he's getting a bad feeling in his gut as he looks at this guy.

Mystery blonde man sighs in relief. "Oh, good. I was afraid I got the address wrong. Hi, I'm—"

"Connor." Rachel's stunned statement makes him turn around. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

The man's eyes light up and he pushes past Puck to take Rachel in his arms and twirl her around. "Sweetheart!" Puck wants to tell the guy to keep his hands the fuck away from his wife but he can't find it in himself to move or say anything. Connor (or Douchebag, as he would be forever known to him) eventually puts Rachel down and beams at her. "Well, my flight from Zurich got re-routed to Pennsylvania and I knew you were flying back tomorrow so I thought I'd swing by, see your quaint little hometown and then we can go back home together."

Rachel is starting to turn pink as she brings a hand to her throat. "Really, Connor, you're not usually this spontaneous."

"Pumpkin, who is it?" an apron-clad Alan asks as he leaves his cooking to investigate. Following him is James, still carrying Karl, who meows loudly once he sees who is at the door.

"Dad, Daddy…this is Connor."

"Her boyfriend," he appends with a smile as he shakes both their hands.

Both Mr. Berrys are notably shocked as they look at each other, then at the man introducing himself so politely. Rachel clears her throat, her eyes darting everywhere but at the people involved. "And Connor, these are my dads Alan and James."

"Pleasure to meet you. Oh and I see you've met Karl," Connor grins, showing off Crest-perfect teeth. God, Puck really, really wants to punch that stupid grin off his face but he can only stand there half-hidden by the door, his jaw clenched so tightly, it's starting to hurt.

"Wow, the whole fam's here, huh? Haha, did not expect that. It's so wonderful to meet you both. So, we're having dinner?" At the Berrys' mute nods, he claps his hands in delight. "Marvelous. And then maybe afterwards, we could talk privately," the last part he says in a quiet aside to Rachel.

"Of course. Just give me a minute," she murmurs.

James gives him a gracious if bewildered smile and gestures towards the sofa, saying "Why don't you make yourself at home?" before he retreats back to the kitchen with Rachel and Alan.

Connor takes a deep breath and then circles the room, taking a good look at his surroundings. Which is when he sees Puck still standing there. "Oh. I didn't realize you were still here. I'm Connor," he says, offering his hand.

Puck ignores it in favor of staring the fucker down. "Yeah, I figured."

The other man's smile is still frozen on his face. "And you are?"

He honestly doesn't know what to say to the guy or if he should hold off on the talking and, you know, go straight to the ass-kicking. He had been half-joking, half-mad, when he had accused Rachel two days before (has it really been just two day? It feels like a lifetime). But here, seeing the truth right in front of him, thinking of this man touching what is his…it's making him sick. There's a huge gaping hole reopening itself in his chest and goddamnit, can't he be happy for once in his life without the universe fucking it all up?

Things that he had put out of his mind because of everything that happened yesterday come crashing back into his consciousness. _New York. Divorce. Boyfriend. Lima. _He wants to punch himself for being such a chump. Dimly, he realizes that Connor is still there, politely waiting for him to reply. For a second, he wants to tell him the truth, wants that smug grin to melt off his face when he tell him that he fucked his "girlfriend" for hours. For a second, he wants to ruin Rachel's charade with Mr. Perfect Pretty Boy. But instead he can only croak out three words.

"Nobody. I'm nobody."

He leaves quickly (but not so quickly that he doesn't hear Connor exclaiming "Well, that was bizarre"), fists balled so tight, his short nails are digging into his skin. He doesn't take the time to say goodbye to the rest of them, instead focusing on getting one foot in front of the other without breaking down into a rage. Halfway down the driveway, he hears footsteps rapidly approaching from behind.

"Noah," Alan wheezes slightly. "You don't have to go."

Puck takes a moment to breathe and calm himself down before facing his other father-in-law. The shorter man has worry etched in every corner of his face. "I'm sorry, Alan," he manages to say. "But I think I have to."

Taking one last look at the house behind them, his heart breaks a little more knowing that she's in it. He claps a hand on Alan's shoulder in farewell and moves towards his truck. There are some things he needs to take care of and only so little time to do it.

* * *

**Not by best work but I hope it's okay for you guys. Review please! Honestly, I'd love to know if there are still people reading the drivel that I post :P**


	14. IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello, everyone. It is with a sad and heavy heart that I would like to announce my indefinite leave from writing. This would mean that this story, **Back to You**, will be placed on hiatus. A number of factors have contributed to this decision, including the death of my father and the sudden disappearance of my friend and co-author, maggiequeen. I hope to return to finish the stories I have started but until that time, I can only thank you for your support. I wish all of you well and may you have a happier year ahead.

Much love,

Lori (joker to the thief)


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